


Little Wild Bouquet

by sangueuk



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Mirror Universe, Non-Graphic Violence, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sangueuk/pseuds/sangueuk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Kirk is hiding out in Iowa Forest when he gets captured by a gang of misfits led by ‘Doc’ who mistakenly think Jim’s a cadet and hopes to claim a ransom from Starfleet. Like McCoy, in the past George and Sam Kirk have been involved in an underground movement  to destroy the Empire and set up a republic, and are known as ‘crats’ -  followers of democracy. Is Jim a chip off the old block, or will Doc be paying Jim to <i>leave</i>?</p><p>mirrorverse <i>light</i>. The rating is due to explicit man-sex a bit later :D although there are acts of violence, references to violence in some detail ‘off camera’, bad language and bad manners. Also some mild medical gore. And minor character death.</p><p>intriguing snippet: <i>“Magnify fifty per cent,” he whispers, zooms in on the figure they’ve been tracking for two hours, watches him kick out the stand and step away from the bike. When the kid raises his arms to stretch, his leather jacket and t-shirt ride up revealing a brief flash of bare skin above low rise jeans. Leonard’s hands grip the binoculars harder and his mouth falls open in interest.     </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> +While this is mirrorverse, it is _very_ light and based more on the concept of a society along the lines of ancient Rome where those in power are ruthless and above the law, while everyone else just muddles along best they can. And it’s an AU because… well things go a slightly different way than in the movie. Yes, complicated premise is complicated.  
>  +N.B. ‘republicans’ and ‘democrats’ have a particular meaning in the context of this fic. The ancient Romans had those who wanted to _preserve_ the empire with an emperor leading it, and those who wanted to establish a democracy and set up a republic. In my world, ‘crats’ are supporters of democracy and want to bring down the Empire.  
>  +The title is a line from the poem/song  Democracy  by Leonard Cohen  
> \+ written for the jim_and_bones Halloween Costume Challenge, in response to the photo prompt 'Robin Hood'
> 
> AMAZING ART  by the wonderful, talented loobeeinthesky! It’s so beautiful, thank you so very much!
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to awarrington for beta reading and to weepingnaiad for support.

**Little Wild Bouquet  
Part 1 **  


“Doc!” Sulu’s voice is a slightly too loud whisper but, given where they’re perched, it’s better he woke Leonard like this than by poking him.

It’s understandable that Leonard should have momentarily lost the fight against the drag of sleep; ten hours the woman was in labor. He feels a glow of satisfaction, remembering his patient’s expression: tired relief, followed by awed confusion when he placed the baby into her grateful arms.

She’s gone already, fuck knows where, wet nurse in tow, taking over immediately; fucking noble women and their insistence on detaching from their young. Gram clipped his own mother round the ear often enough, chastising her for allowing too strong a bond to form by feeding Leonard herself.

He yawns, flushes with irritation, bleary eyes following Sulu’s ‘that way’ gesture.

Leonard nods and adjusts his position on the branch where he sits horse-back on it, thighs clamping tighter. The leaves are beginning to turn with hints of gold and purple, rustling and rattling around them. He lifts his binoculars, sweeps across the forest canopy to hone in on their target who has wheeled his motorbike closer to the stream, closer to them. 

“Magnify fifty per cent,” he whispers, zooms in on the figure they’ve been tracking for two hours, watches him kick out the stand and step away from the bike. When the kid raises his arms to stretch, his leather jacket and t-shirt ride up revealing a brief flash of bare skin above low rise jeans. Leonard’s hands grip the binoculars harder and his mouth falls open in interest. He covers up by faking another yawn.

“Should’ve let me come with Monty,” Sulu whispers.

“Stim’s wore off is all - I’m good,” Leonard whispers back, eyes still on their target who shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the seat. He then pulls a comm from his back pocket, scrolls down the screen, tucks it away and bends down to unlace his boots. With the definition, Leonard can see they’re worn but well cared for, recently re-heeled but not polished. Must have sentimental value, or maybe the kid stole them, he doesn’t look the type to care about anything – even the bike’s battered though it purred well enough where they tracked him on the perimeter of their territory. Leonard thinks wearily how living the life of a criminal makes you a better detective than the average citizen of the Empire.

He swaps hands and rubs an eye with his middle finger, swallowing when he sees the young punk pull off his t-shirt to reveal a pattern of three nautical stars curving on his teres minor. Leonard’s eyes rake down a skinny but well defined back, till he catches himself and can drag his gaze away. He’s healthy looking, Leonard tells himself, so he must have some credits to his name though he’s dressed like a bum. And he has a lot of scars but then who hasn’t by the time they reach manhood?

“Now, boss?”

The kid’s lowering his jeans. Leonard makes a staying gesture and swallows when he sees the little punk’s commando. He clamps his lips tight and makes damn sure not to glance at Sulu; if they catch eyes, Sulu, ever ready for a bit of banter, will make something of his hesitation. It’s just Leonard wants to be sure is all; they’re going to get just one shot at this. Maybe they should wait till dark.

Leonard shifts on the branch and leans forward. His eyes rake over the image in his sights, following the kid who strides naked into the stream and lets out an audible yelp at the cold. Leonard watches him crouch and scoop water over dirty blond hair that falls too long over his ears. He ignores the little twinge in his cock when the kid turns– damn, he really should get laid occasionally – sexual frustration is clouding his thinking.

“Boss?”

Once the kid’s struggled back into his jeans, Leonard raises his hand and nods. He lowers the binoculars and Sulu lifts the cross-bow then his eyes flick back to their target to watch in satisfaction when he sees the kid drop, the tranquilizer dart hitting home instantly.

They slide down from the tree and jog towards him. He’s fallen mouth open onto his side. Sulu nudges the kid’s hip with his boot and stands back while Leonard runs the tricorder over him, over damp, creamy skin, a lightly haired chest and skinny hips. He flicks pine needles off his skin where they’ve stuck to him.

“Credits, credits, I love you credits!” Sulu whoops and pulls the rope off his belt. He faces Leonard, counts, “two, three, four—“

“For the good of the many,” they both chorus and salute.

Leonard flicks his comm open. “Monty, we’re done here. Come get the bike – he’ll be out for a while.”

+++

Jim’s shoulder’s going to snap if this _soon to be dead_ asshole doesn’t let go.

Saliva soaks the sack or whatever filthy fucking cloth they’ve used to cover his face and his skin stings on his arms and neck where he’s made contact with the forest floor. He’s memorizing voices, details as they drag him through the forest backwards. He twists and hollers, unable to kick even, not the way they’ve hog tied him with restraints round his thighs, his calves and ankles. He registers that he’s somehow wearing his t-shirt again but that his beloved jacket is gone which only makes his need to murder one of these bastards even more intense.

Fuck – he should have told someone where he was going; they’d be able to track him via his comm, right? Only no one he _wants_ to find him would have had a clue where he was _before_ the sniper got him and they hauled him here. Wherever ‘here’ is.

He knows he’s still in the forest, even though he lost consciousness for a while there. He can feel pine needles caught on his skin, and _what the fuck_ , he can smell horse shit. Who the hell has horses anymore? Maybe they’re for food – yeah, that makes sense.

The forests are more dangerous than the cities harboring small bands of outlaws and the detritus of society; away from the city’s surveillance, they can pretty much do as they please, the miles and miles of dense Iowa woodland populated by villains left to their own devices by the gouty Empire. These days it gathers enough taxes and loot in the black that it gives even less of a shit about the safety of its citizens. Jim suspects that sometimes Starfleet even recruits its most badass red shirts from the wilderness, the promises of the spoils of battle enticing them out of the trees.

And isn’t that why he’s here? To hide out from the cops?

Well that worked out just great; out of the fucking frying pan…

“I’ll make you pay” Jim manages to get out, but his threat sounds lame even to his own ears; still he’s gotten out of tighter corners than this before.

When his head thunks against a tree trunk or something, he yelps more in surprise than pain and decides to change tack; it might be best to play it quiet and afraid, so when he makes his move – once he’s taken his sweet time eviscerating their fucking hides – it’ll be all the sweeter.

“Don’t, _don’t_ ,” he playacts, whining while trying not to smirk as more than one pair of hands twists him round and he lands face first in a heap of leaves. The muscles in his shoulders scream and his arms are brutally twisted harder behind him as the restraints are pulled tighter.

Finally, one of the fuckers speaks. “Hey, don’t cry, cadet.” The words drip with sarcasm, with fake concern.

‘Cadet’? Why do they think…? Ah, it’s because he’s wearing that asshole Cupcake’s dog tags. That’s good – if they find out who he really is, they’ll embed his feet in concrete to keep him from escaping.

“Keep fucking still!” another voice shouts, accompanied by the familiar press of cold steel at his throat.

Jim makes himself flinch, totally in character now. “Don’t hurt me, _please_ – I’ll tell you anything.”

He strains to work out how many of them there are; there’s at least half a dozen voices, one of them a woman’s, but he’s yet to identify anyone who might be in charge. All the better, a gang of thugs he can deal with; as soon as he wins one of them over he’ll be out of here and no need for anyone to know about his little hike gone wrong in the woods.

“Hear that?” a Scottish voice says with a chuckle. “He thinks we give a toss about what he knows.” There’s a crunch as a kick lands on his ass and Jim bites his lip to stop himself with the threats. Man is he ever going to enjoy killing this fuck in particular.

Instead he chokes back a fake sob and tries to curl into a ball, bracing himself for the next assault. He knows that if he was the one wearing the boot, the more pathetic the reaction, the more he’d kick so…

“Monty, quit!” A booming voice commands, southern accent all molasses and spurs. Jim licks his lips and waits for the sound of, at the very least, a cuff to the Scottish bastard’s ear but no such thing happens. 

“Doc, he’s not putting up much of a fight, I was getting bored.” A grunted response and Jim can _feel_ the leader’s presence as he looms over, bringing with him a faint waft of whiskey and cigars. Man, Jim’s only got himself captured by cowboys. Great.

“He’s not gonna be worth a fucking hog’s hide if you cover him in contusions, is he?”

Not a natural leader, Jim surmises; for one, why’s he explaining himself to his goon? And why isn’t the scot being punished for back talking? Jim waits for the sound of an agonizer at least, or the threat of one, but all he can sense is irritation coming off the boss in waves.

Credits, they’re after payment, Jim thinks. Fuck – who’s gonna pay a ransom for his hide? Actually, now he’s blown out on Pike, maybe the cops.

“He’s wearing cadet tags, boss,” another voice says, a lazy drawl from his left, “the way those Starfleet dudes look after their own, they’d cough up even when we start removing his fingers.”

Yeah, if Starfleet had anything to do with him.

“God damn it, Hik, but you’re a theatrical asshole,” Doc growls but with no heat in his voice.

“Dog tags don’t match up with his comm ID,” a woman’s voice remarks.

“Must have stolen them,” Doc muses, moving away.

“And the bike’s got fake ID too, seems like it’s been registered to a long deceased citizen,” the woman continues.

Jim stays stock still braced for another kick while he remembers with a leer how he yanked the tags off the simian cadet in a Riverside pub, right before he drove his dagger into the motherfucker’s belly. He flushes with satisfaction. No one gives a damn who you kill in a bar, long as honor’s at stake, but touch a Starfleet cadet and you’re dead meat – once they’ve slow-cooked you in a booth that is. If it hadn’t have been for Pike intervening when he did, that’s exactly what would have happened.

“What’s his name?” Doc doesn’t sound that interested and for some reason this makes Jim feel a little disappointed.

“Says here, Tiberius George,” the Scot says, “it’s not his real name; man’s a consummate hacker by the looks of things, though he’s left big, clumsy finger prints all over his work.”

Jim wants to protest at that – he was on the run, dammit, hurriedly changing his comm print in a rest-stop in _shit_ light, _and_ he’d broken his reading glasses in the fight. He takes a deep breath – fuck ‘em – what does he care what they think?

“So…” Doc draws out the vowel with what Jim’s realising is his default, sarcastic drawl. “Instead of a cadet, we’ve got ourselves a bum - someone who’s not worth the scrapings off a hog’s balls.” There’s laughter and Jim grinds his teeth, keeping quiet. “Fact is we’ve got ourselves a piece of meat no one wants and seeing as we haven’t quite yet taken up cannibalism, he’s a problem.” 

“No one wants him,” the woman says, her voice acid. “I’ll get rid of him.”

Jim hears the sound of a knife being drawn from a metal sheath and wishes he was a religious man, that he believed in Jupiter or some such fuck who at least could provide him with comfort in his last moments. He swallows, twitches, taking solace in all he’s got: charm, brains – badassary not quite available right now, given the rope and sack; but these have never failed him yet and they’re just a bunch of low-rent hoods, right? 

“Wait!” he says.

A beat.

“Wait?” The Doc, Jim _knew_ it, isn’t a natural leader. Good thing, because if it were Jim in charge, he’d have had himself killed as soon as they worked out the tags were stolen. Now Jim’s got a life line.

“If it was me, you know, in your shoes. Boots even. I’d sell the bike,” Jim says swallowing, waiting. His voice seems to disappear into the trees.

“Would you now? I hadn’t thought of that, had you, crew?” Seriously, the sarcastic tone, Doc’s drawl is having unexpected effects on Jim’s cock but he drives forward, seeing as it’s life and death at stake.

“Yes, Doc, only you won’t be able to without my help—”

“Must be booby trapped,” the Scot says admiringly, “I’d have done the same.”

“And it’s worth a lot of credits,” Jim says tentatively, feeling his nose twitch, fucking sack, fuck his _life_. “If you’re going to kill me, can I at least look my executioner in the eye?” Jim takes a chance and struggles onto his back and tries to sit upright, turning towards where the woman so keen to kill him last stood. “You sound kind of hot, baby.” 

He smiles in satisfaction when he hears her cursing. “Fucking hick, who you calling baby?”

“Shush, Nyota, can’t you see he’s trying to get you all riled up,” Doc says, amusement in his voice. “Sulu, take off the sack, let’s take a look at this bum.”

Jim hears footsteps approach and braces himself, tries to make himself look tough when he feels fingers at his throat, the sack loosen and then he blinks, eyes gritty and sore, forcing them open against the lamp held near. He looks into the face of his captor, Asian features, fine and unlined, a scar across one cheek, eyes cold and amused – yep, this one’s the dangerous one, he decides.

Jim drops his head in mock submission but glances up when Sulu steps away revealing the rest of the group. He scans them quickly – there’s the one the doc called Nyota, yep _definitely_ hot, a knife in one hand, nice boots. And that must be the Scot, a tricorder in his hand and a sword at his hip, staring at Jim with an unreadable expression, and …Jim suppresses the desire to let out an appreciative whistle when he sees the Doc, his eyes tracking up long, long thighs, over a broad chest and settling on a dark-eyed scowl which sends little shocks right down to his dick. Hmm, he might have to kill this one last.

More importantly, one look at his face and Jim knows Doc won’t have him killed.

“Hey, Sulu,” he says, dropping his voice and raising his eyebrows to indicate he come closer. Sulu strides back and crouches by him – man, what a bunch of amateurs.

Sulu’s nose makes a satisfying crunch when Jim head butts him. He recovers and Jim laughs maniacally, though Sulu’s astride his chest, pummelling his face with murderous fists, dimly aware of Doc and the Scot trying to pull him off.

Then those same hands are round Jim’s throat squeezing hard, tightening and tightening until he sees stars and finally blacks out with a gurgle.


	2. Chapter 2

**Little Wild Bouquet  
Part 2 **

Doc’s handsome, grouchy features come slowly into focus through the one eye Jim can open fully. He’s movie star good looking, Jim thinks, while still managing to look like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. It makes Jim smile. And his face hurt.

_Shit._

Actually, now he's more awake, _everything_ hurts: his ass, his shoulders, but mostly his face.

As he runs this mental scan of his body, Jim comes across a tight, burning sensation on his neck, a little way under his ear lobe which makes him think it was a hypo that brought him round. Maybe two – a second to ease the pain – though it seems a crazy thing to do: waste medication on a prisoner, though welcome, as he feels less battered by the minute.

Not surprisingly, all the fight from earlier has left him; he’s limp, his head’s fuzzy and his mouth feels numb, tongue thick and slow to respond. “Man, I feel stoned, what did ya give me doc? Feels nice.” 

It’s almost nightfall and the forest birds are calling, ones he can name piecemeal from a temporary childhood obsession with cataloguing every living creature in Iowa forest. _Strix nebulosa_ his brain provides unnecessarily when he hears an owl somewhere behind him.

“You’re an asshole.” 

Doc’s words would make Jim smile if he hadn’t just noticed he’s in a cage; wooden bars separate him from a circle of tents of varying sizes. Also nearby, he can hear horses whinnying.

The tantalizing scent of bacon wafts around him and he swallows, suddenly hungry – _really_ hungry. It’s hours since he grabbed a replicated bread roll from a fuel station with his collar up, beanie pulled down over his ears, back turned to the cameras.

Yeah, he’s an asshole but still, “I’m alive aren’t I?” he informs Doc.

Jim makes to move his hands so he can examine his nose, but they bump his jaw and he discovers they’re bound at the wrist. He wriggles his fingers, stretches them to poke gently at the bridge of his nose, the septum. 

Doc looms close bringing rich, hazel eyes into sharp relief. "I fixed it up while you were out; nice clean break but expect it to throb some." He glowers, and pointing at Jim with a long finger adds, “And the _reason_ you’re still alive…” Jim waits to hear the terms, how he’s expected to pay for his treatment with favors or sex, money never quite being enough; like he has from every fucking doctor he’s had the misfortune of crossing paths with, “…is that I called him off." 

None of it makes sense, Jim thinks. They should have gotten rid of him soon as they worked out he wasn’t a cadet and therefore worthless to them; simplest way would have been to dose him with something lethal yet, perversely, Doc gave him something to make him feel _better_. Jim shakes his head and scrunches up his face when the sudden move causes a _whoosh_ behind his eyes. The Doc _must_ want something from him – that’s how it works.

“So, I owe you I guess,” Jim sighs.

Doc rolls his eyes and looks at Jim like he’s an idiot. “On the house seeing as it was one of my men who gave you what you had coming to you.”

Well that’s new though Jim acts like this is unremarkable behavior from a doctor.

“He’s a badass,” Jim concedes conversationally, turning to examine the doctor’s face through unfocused eyes.

Doc glares back at him pointedly, eyebrows thick, expressive, then his eyes dart away and Jim hears the snap of what must be a medkit. "Sulu and violence – well put it this way, it’s like some guys are about sex: too many days without and he gets real twitchy.”

Jim nods admiringly, “Yeah.” He’s like that about both things, whatever. “How about you, Doc?”

Doc frowns, looks suspicious and snaps, “How about me, _what_?” 

Jim wants to ask so much, find out what his deal is, who this crew of misfits is, and why they follow him when, from what he’s seen, Doc doesn’t really put that much effort into keeping them in check. And he wants to know why the hell he’s still alive. Instead Jim asks a question courtesy of his lizard brain:

“You like that? Like Sulu?”

“About violence? Nah, I’m more of a healer-type, though I have been known to—” Doc stops short as if he’s said too much.

Healer-type? Jim stores that away to think about later when the drugs wear off. He takes a deep breath and sits up on the bed, rubbing the back of his neck. Yeah, he almost feels like himself – only stoned as fuck.

With the greatest of care, he rises to his feet and takes the single step towards the bars that separate them in super slow motion, bare feet scuffing the sand and straw that serve as flooring – like he’s a pig in a sty. He leans on the bars and tries to look himself when in fact he feels emasculated, weak.

“I meant about the sex,” Jim smirks.

“Unbelievable! You’re actually _flirting_ with me? What? You think you’ll bat those pretty lashes and I’ll set you free?” Doc snorts.

“Okay, if you don’t wanna flirt, how about this? Where's my jacket?"

If Doc looked grouchy before, he goes up a gear now. "You've been unconscious, you’ve been kidnapped and all you can think about is a beat-up jacket?"

Fuck, if only he knew. Jim _needs_ the fucking jacket back but he covers up, looks away, forcing an amused smile.

Doc makes to leave and says over his shoulder, “You ain’t the threat you were, but you and me know you'll go right back to your spitfire ways once the meds have worn off.” Accusing eyes sweep over Jim. “And the drooling will stop. Maybe."

Now who’s fucking flirting? His eyes fix on lips too red and full for such a masculine face. Jim very much doubts the drooling _will_ stop. Not that he's complaining.

He drapes an arm across the bars and fixes Doc with his patented Kirk ‘I’m irresistible’ expression and lowers his voice. “You think I have pretty lashes?”

Okay, it was probably a step too far because Doc mutters something under his breath, ups and leaves, stomping towards the tents. 

Jim takes a quick look around his cage: five paces across, open on one side and enclosed on the other three. The only furniture is a fold-out bed. He leans on the bars, grips them and rocks. Then he tries kicking them, testing their strength; they don’t budge and he realizes they’re not real wood, but replicated. The impact makes some kind of force field buzz too – this cage is not what it appears to be.

Suddenly, Doc’s back with a bucket and a dark look on his face.

"Wondered where..." Jim begins, but whatever he was going to say turns into a yelp when cold water slaps his face, drenches his hair, rolls down his neck and soaks his t-shirt. Jim lunges forward, shaking the water from his eyes. “Mother _fucker_!” he yells, arrested in his attempt to grab the Doc and bite the god damned smirk off his face by the bars. “When I get my hands on you I’m gonna—”

Doc turns away and saunters back towards the tents. “Promises, promises,” he laughs, voice fading as he retreats, all cowboy swagger and broad shoulders.

“You just going to leave me here to freeze to death?” Jim calls after him.

There’s no answer, just the soft, low-pitched hoot of Jim’s only companion in the world, where it hides in the trees behind him.

+++

Following a clear night, the temperature has dropped. The sun’s about to come up, when he takes a last look at the stars – only the brightest still visible in the pre-dawn light – Jim feels pretty fucking small. At least he didn’t freeze to death: Monty brought him a small heater just before dark and Jim’s still huddled by it, wrapped in the surprisingly soft blanket from his bed, preferring to stay sitting up, on alert, and closer to the warmth, than to lie down.

Over the next hour or so, he watches the crew passing between the tents and the latrine and what must be the mess tent, he thinks with a grimace, licking his lips when he smells eggs and more fucking bacon. First Sulu, then Nyota and Monty. He tries to work out who’s fucking whom but the only clue is maybe the tall blond is Doc’s woman. They seemed to be walking pretty close. None of them, not even Sulu, have spared Jim as much as a glance and it’s starting to irritate him. 

His bravado’s temporarily shot to pieces and Jim wonders what the fuck he should do now. He’s certain they won’t kill him; the best case scenario is they’ll likely dump him in a ditch outside Iowa City limits where, if he survives the wild dogs and cut throat homeless, he should be able to get into favor somewhere and find a job until he works out his next move. All he knows is he needs to get the hell out of here, get off planet, and start again.

With Sam gone, his mom taken up with…fuck, he’s not even going to _think_ that bastard’s name...he’s more on his own than he’s ever been, and there’s nothing here to keep him – hasn’t been for a while.

It's Monty who finally brings Jim food.

“What the fuck is this?" he demands, peering at what can only be described as sludge.

Monty shrugs, watching Jim raise the spoon and sniff the contents cautiously. "Grits. It's not a patch on porridge but beggars can’t be choosers, so the saying goes."

"Grits?" _Really?_ “What about the bacon? I could smell bacon.”

“All gone, laddie.” 

Jim examines the large forehead, the hair thinning already, though Monty’s probably only in his mid twenties, and wonders what drugs he must be taking to be in such a great mood, apparently all the time. 

"And what you did to my mate Sulu,” Monty continues, “you understand you've blown any chance of me spoon-feeding you, you wanker!" Monty smiles a 'not-really' smile and raises a cross bow, pointing it right at Jim's head. "I have what you yanks call ‘anger issues’," he explains blithely, "in case you’re thinking of trying anything.” 

Jim’s intrigued by the crew’s attachment to low-fi weapons: daggers fair enough, what would a man be without his knife at hand at all times, but swords? And now a cross-bow? Jim realizes it’s an obvious way to stay under the radar; phasers can be picked up on orbital sensors, but these are untrackable and deadly. Genius.

“Monty,” he says, turning on the charm, “I need to visit the head, then maybe breakfast...?” He hasn’t eaten in a day and a half and knows he’s dehydrated too; and _fuck_ , the rapidly cooling grits are starting to look almost appealing. Almost.

Monty grins at him. “Be my guest, laddie, but I won’t be averting my eyes.”

Jim nods towards the latrine, “I could go here, it’s just…”

“Need someone to hold your dick?”

Jim pretends to think about it. “I like the idea of you holding my dick, Monty, but wiping my ass? We barely know each other.”

To Jim’s surprise, Monty smiles a slow, sly smile. “Well, the latrine’s just here. Let’s go, Tiberius, or whatever your real name is. You won’t be going anywhere.” 

_Not till after he’s peed,_ Jim thinks.

Monty moves his hand to the keypad and Jim’s heart sinks when he sees it’s opened with a thumb scan. Can’t hack that. He waits for Monty to beckon him out. Instead Monty unsheathes his sword left handed from the scabbard across his chest and nods at Jim’s hands. Jim holds them out obediently so Monty can slice through the silicone rope.

The latrine’s housed in a tall, skinny tent located a little away from the rest and there’s no lock, just a flap of canvas between him and the outside world. Call him old-fashioned, but when it comes to communing with nature, he prefers a bit of privacy. No way is he going to be able do anything more than take a piss. 

He could try and break out of the opposite wall of the tent, he thinks while unbuttoning his jeans, but Monty would soon sound the alarm. Better to overpower Monty, grab his weapons and see if he can find the motorbike. He hasn’t seen it since was brought here. Once done, he sanitizes his hands – the machine is old, clunky and noisy. 

“That was quick!” Monty calls on hearing the desanitizer, and with the sun shining directly on him, Jim can see his silhouette on alert through the flap.

“I can’t go with you listening,” Jim says, being honest for once as he readies himself for an opportunity before he emerges.

Outside, he smiles disarmingly at Monty, though he has a feeling this guy’s not as laid back about life as he comes across. In fact, Jim thinks, if it were _he_ on prisoner detail, he’d be hoping for a little rumble just to keep his hand in, the thought putting Jim on alert.

“Aye, well....” the Scot shrugs.

“What are you going to do with me, Monty?” When he’s ignored, he tries another: the second most pressing matter. “Okaaay…how about this; where’s my jacket?”

“Ah, Doc said something about you getting all stroppy about your jacket.”

Maybe it’s an early morning thing but Monty sounds so relaxed, it’s almost unnatural, like he holds prisoners at knife-point on a daily basis. Monty’s called him ‘stroppy’ – he’s not even sure he knows what that means. 

Jim just about to swing at Monty when both of them turn their attention towards the unmistakable sound of a hoverbike snarling to a standstill. Then it revs up again and bursts into the clearing, landing and skidding to a halt at the same time as the crew emerge hastily from their respective quarters. 

Monty glances at Jim and hisses, “You fucking stay here, lad. I’ll be back in a second.” With that he dashes off to join the group that’s formed around a wild eyed kid who’s spilled from the bike’s seat and stumbles to help an injured passenger out of the side-car. He looks barely old enough to jerk off.

With everyone preoccupied, there’s no doubt in Jim’s head that he needs to seize this moment and disappear into the trees. He’s pretty sure this is still Toledo Forest, which means if he just keeps heading south he’ll get close to the city walls within a couple of days.

 _If_ he goes now.

Against all reason, Jim does the exact opposite: he ducks out of sight back into the latrine holding the flap aside so he has a clear view of the events unravelling round the bike. He reasons that even if Monty comes back now, the last place he’ll look is where he left Jim, because _it wouldn’t make sense_ for Jim to still be there. 

Finally showing some leadership skills, Doc’s taken control of the situation immediately, telling everyone to stand back, sending the blonde woman into the largest of the tents. “Neck brace, get the osteogen and set the sterile field.” He points at Sulu. “You and Monty get the stretcher. I don’t wanna move him until I’ve checked him over. Looks like there’s a lot of nerve damage.”

They race off and Doc runs his tricorder over a lolling figure, bloodied and possibly unconscious in the sidecar.

“Gimme some room here, kid,” Doc addresses the bike rider without looking at him. “What’s your name?” The boy mumbles something.“Tell me what happened, Will.” 

“Booth, then they, they…” the kid’s choking back tears now he’s got where he wanted to be. His adrenaline’s crashed and he loses his composure. Jim knows, he knows all too well.

Doc waves at Nyota who’s taking on the role of guard, her dagger pointed at the boy.  
“Put that fucking thing _down_ , Nyota. Hold the patient’s head straight till we get the brace.” 

Nyota nods without a flicker of dissent in her attitude which honestly surprises Jim and, though she looks about as concerned for the kid as a cat would a mouse, she appears to know what she’s doing – evidence she’s assisted Doc many times before. Fact is, they all look like they have.

Yeah, Jim’s seen enough; he thinks again about slipping out the back end of the latrine, pulling up the tent pegs one by one, crawling under like a rat, and making a wide circle, heading back to the edge of the forest where they first took the sack off his head. 

Or should he go in the opposite direction? 

He keeps an eye on what’s going on while he thinks and sees that while Doc’s doing something to the wounded guy, the kid, Will, leans across Nyota’s hands stroking his brother’s slack face. The signs of weakness, the sentimentality, makes Jim sick to his stomach. Nyota and Doc merely ignore the gesture, like it’s perfectly normal or perhaps they’re grossed out too and are pretending it’s not happening at all.

“Please, Doctor, please, don’t let him die; he’s my brother…he’s gonna be alright, yeah?”

Jim’s face feels clammy when he hears this. Fuck, _fuck_. It’s like an echo from his past. He swallows with difficulty, his throat dry, aching with suppressed emotions he refuses to look at.

Instead he wonders what Doc will do now: if he’ll smack the kid round the head, shoo him away, ask him for payment while he’s desperate, then, maybe when he admits he’s got nothing, Doc will just abandon the injured brother, walk away and let him die.

Jim knows from first-hand experience how these things go. He’s not thought of it in four years – except maybe in his dreams – but he recalls his own brother, Sam. His brother tortured, five hours in the booth for being linked to an underground democrat site, was tossed in the street to die, for the homeless to strip, to sell his carcass for dog meat. Jim numb beside him, begging, charming his way through the sharks who were waiting to feast on him, talking his way into the doctor’s office, offering to give him the best head he’d ever had, if he saved Sam.

Now he remembers everything: Sam’s bloodied jacket, his glassy eyes, the drool fizzing in the corner of his mouth like the his insides were still cooking from the booth. Jim hoped he’d never have to think again how the physician – to whom Jim had gone for help – took one look at Sam’s broken body and reassured him he’d help. In reality, the bastard turned Jim’s brother in for body parts. It was more profitable than to heal, and way less effort. The doctor didn’t even lower his voice to make the call when he stepped into his office, leaving the door open as if taunting Jim with his disregard for Sam’s fate. 

At that moment, something broke inside Jim then reset. He remembers looking at his brother’s face for what he knew would be the last time. Jim knew Sam would never come to, knew that if he stayed he’d probably end up exactly where his brother was. He realized then it was another pointless death for a pointless cause, that went against normal human inclinations – and he was nuts to ever allow Sam to convince him otherwise. Sam with his endless fucking whispers of ‘it’s why dad died, don’t you _get_ it?!” Always on fucking message when all Jim wanted to do was fight and fuck and be with his big brother.

Jim had shrugged the leather jacket off Sam’s broken body, slipped it on over his hoodie, and without so much as a backward glance, left. 

And now, watching Doc tend to this other kid’s brother, the details Jim’s managed to bury keep on piling back, one memory dragging another in its wake till he’s shaking with nervous energy and grief. 

He remembers the doctor’s impassive face when he ran his tricorder lazily over Sam. It wasn’t professional detachment, something he can sense now under Doc’s curt words; no, with this guy it was all about not-giving-a-fuck beyond immediate gain. Many times since that night, Jim’s asked himself why he ever entertained the idea that a doctor _would_ care.

Jim remembers when he was a kid, that time he was treated by a physician who _did_ break the mold, who with one look affected Jim so deeply that he’s never quite been able to shake it off.

He too was from the south; he fixed up Jim’s broken bones without comment, but with a flicker of _care_ in his eyes; it was like Jim’s mom sometimes looked at him, when she held him when he was small, when she thought no-one would be looking. Till she starting pushing him away, toughening him up, ‘preparing him’, she always said. Sure the doctor took a fee, but it was those soft, brown eyes which gave Jim the notion that there was some other reward for the man here, that healing might even be an end in and of itself. Wasn’t that what Doc intimated earlier?

Now Jim watches with bated breath how Doc touches the kid lightly on the arm, catches the boy’s eyes for a moment and whispers something to him. It’s a small, private gesture, and it could fuck up this boy’s perspective on life as swiftly and irredeemably as Jim’s own was all those years ago by what Jim _thought_ he saw in an old guy’s eyes. 

Jim’s attention snaps back to the here and now by a bellowed, “Will someone get this god damned kid out of here?”

The stretcher arrives and four pairs of hands lift the bloodied figure onto it and then rush him away towards the interior of the tent, leaving Nyota to supervize the kid. Jim wonders again why no-one’s supervising _him_ – he’s far more likely to make a bolt for it than the kid. She unsheathes her weapon and grabbing him, holds it to his throat. “Listen, this isn’t kindergarten; you’re not much good to your brother if you get yourself killed by me for getting in the way. Were you followed?”

There’s furious energy vibrating through the boy. He shakes his head. “No, but the bike’s his and they might track it, I don’t know.” He visibly tries to compose himself. “Is he going to be okay?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Nyota says coolly. “Do I look like a doctor?” Letting go of him, she strides off, pony tail swinging. “Stay there. Don’t make me fucking kill you.” She stops in her tracks long enough to add, “Doc’s the best.”

Vicious killers with sentimental hearts? _All of them_? Confused doesn’t begin to describe Jim’s state of mind; curiosity pins him in place a little longer, though the itch to run still thrums through him on a wave of adrenaline, making his eye twitch.

Jim watches the kid’s shoulders slump. Alone in the clearing, against the backdrop of trees that look down at him like disapproving adults, he looks tiny, broken. After a moment, he walks to within a few meters of the tent and begins his wait. He doesn’t look like he’s going inside and Jim thinks how, if he were in the boys place, he'd have _insisted_ they let him stay with his brother. But this kid’s not a fighter and a killer like Jim; he’s soft, one of the downtrodden: it’s written in every sigh and tear. This kid may have saved his brother temporarily but the both of them will sink to the bottom of the lake of life when something else hits. Neither of them are survivors – they rely on others and that’s something Jim vowed he would never do.

Jim’s seen enough – he needs to go. _Now._

He’s amazed at himself for having left it so long, for having stayed behind. He’s fucking crazy; he’d have been a mile away or more if he’d run when Monty first took his eye off him. Jim raises a hand to his neck to a spot that keeps itching since he woke up in the cage; it must be a mosquito bite and he’s having another allergic reaction.

He’s sure Monty will be out looking for him any minute so he ought to take advantage of his good fortune, of Monty’s no doubt uncharacteristic distraction, and run.

He can walk right past the boy because, of course, he won’t know who Jim is, and he won’t raise the alarm because he won’t realize Jim isn’t part of this family. No, ‘gang’ he corrects himself. 

Sure, a part of him would like to know whether or not the kid’s brother pulls through. But he’ll have forgotten all about it by the morning when he’s well away from these crazy guys.

Sam’s jacket: it’s just another object. Four years ago, it became a symbol, a reminder of how important it is to stay alive. Now, by losing it, it serves to remind him that it’s time to move on; to let absolutely everything go.

So why is it so fucking hard to run? 

Jim grits his teeth and looks over at the kid where he’s standing outside the med tent. He has his back to Jim, skinny shoulders hunched, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. He appears to be considering what to do, his body pulled tight. Unexpectedly, he lets out an audible moan and falls to his knees. 

Jim’s already half way across the clearing, going in the opposite direction, fists clenched in readiness for any fuck who attempts to stop him, but then he pulls up, wavering. 

“Fuck,” he says under his breath and strides back _towards_ the kid, not wanting to think about the forces at work in his action.

The boy’s so wrapped up in his grief, he’s patently unaware of Jim standing, wavering right behind him. Jim assesses the situation quickly – there’s still no one to see him. He shoots a look over his shoulder just in case, then crouches down and reaches for the back of the kid’s neck.

“Hey,” he says, surprised at how rough his voice sounds. The kid scrabbles to his feet and Jim pastes on his best disarming smile. 

“How’s your brother doing?”

The boy looks confused and frowns. “I… don’t know…I can’t… the doctor said I had to…”

Right there, Jim makes a decision. “Let’s go inside – I need to see the doc too.” 

When the boy’s eyes flick to the entrance of the tent, Jim throws him to the ground in one smooth move, covers his mouth and pins him. He waits for the kid’s breathing to ease a little before he speaks.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m not gonna hurt you, okay?”

Wild uncomprehending eyes stare back and while the boy struggles, his saliva smearing Jim’s palm, legs kicking ineffectually, they both know he hasn’t got a fucking chance.

“I’m gonna take my hand away. You scream, I’ve got your knife, understand?” The boy tries to nod. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” Jim repeats. The kid’s shaking under him. “Tell me why you’re here.”

“My...my brother’s hurt,” the kid manages.

“I know that,” Jim spits, “but why here, why did you come _here_ with him?”

“The doc. He…” Blue eyes shine with tears and there’s anger in Will’s voice and not at Jim holding him down. He’s used to betrayal, doesn’t take it personally – it’s just the way things are. “The doc, he’s not like the others, he—”

“—doesn’t care who you are, what’s in it for him, that it?” Jim feels something drop in his gut at his own words – he’s right, of course he is. The doc is either a freak of nature, or a ‘crat – they’re all fucking ‘crats and Doc’s the one running the show.

“Yeah.” The boy half closes his eyes, resigned. “You gonna kill me?”

Jim sits back on his heels, still astride the kid’s thighs one hand searching the boy’s waistband, scooting over his boots for any other weapons. “I haven’t decided. Depends if you tell me what I want, if you help me.”

“I’ve got nothing. I’m on the run, stole the bike, they’re after me.”

“Who are? The cops? The Guards?”

“Maybe, I don’t know, it’s…all I could think was to get my brother here. I can’t help you, man. I thought you were one of them…”

“Now if I was one of these do-gooders you think I’d have you pinned down like this, asshole?” Damn, how did Will get to live so long anyway if he’s so dumb? The knife blade skims the soft skin at the boy’s throat. 

“So why the fuck do you care?”

At last! Jim rolls his eyes, a little impressed by this late show of bravado. “I don’t _care_ , I don’t give a shit, but I wanna know what they’re doing in that tent; why you think this is a safe place for a little squirt like you.” 

“You going to bust them?”

“No.”

“I just want my brother to pull through. I won’t tell – why don’t you run, take my knife. I’ll tell you the code for the bike, you could be miles away by the time they finish up.”

It’s a good plan; on the bike Jim really could cover some miles in no time at all. But miles to _where_? He can’t think of anywhere he _wants_ to go. Other than inside that tent. He glances at his fingers, then back at the kid’s chest where he notices for the first time blood has dried on Will’s denim jacket. His brother’s blood. 

Sam died for this cause. If this other kid pulls through, maybe it’s a sign, a second chance for Jim. Maybe...fuck, maybe...

“So, if I let you go, you’re gonna stay fucking quiet.” It’s an order, not a question, and Jim expects compliance. Jim stands and looks down,sees the boy’s frozen in place, so he holds out his hand.

“Come on.”

Will staggers to his feet, refusing to take Jim’s hand. 

Jim moves examines the tent flap, then drags his foot over dry earth until he nudges a small rod almost completely embedded in the ground just by the opening. It’s a projector – of _course_ ; the tent is a holographic image, a ‘shield’ hiding the real nature of what’s behind. The contact makes the tent blink, shift, registering like a subliminal image, long enough for Jim to know he’s right, that when he goes inside it, he’ll find something entirely at odds with its exterior.

“Go in, check on your brother. Find out what’s happening and I’ll be on my way – no harm done, ‘k?” He tries to make his voice gentle and reassuring but he’s out of practice; last time he spoke like this was to a dog at home probably, and even then he’d have made damn sure no one could have heard by wiping the security feed in his mom’s house just in case. Damn, now he’s thinking about his mom too. Jim hisses in a breath, feeling totally confused at himself.

“You’re fucking crazy,” Will whispers, but nods nevertheless, moving a half step towards the entrance. 

There’s silence inside, or appears to be, but Jim knows this is all part of the shield. He realizes now the reason he’s not heard or seen any horses yet is that they must be in some kind of holographic corral too; that the Doc’s crew has some kick-ass technology at its fingertips. All this must have cost a fortune, must involve benefactors, people risking their lives for the subversive principles his own father was a martyr to, and to which he and his own brother fell victim. Jim frowns, annoyed, unsettled, hoping he’d left this shit behind him once and for all yet finding himself drawn back, wanting to know, wanting...something...

“They said I had to stay here,” Will whispers, “but I guess it would be cool to see how things are going, though they haven’t been that long.”

“Just get in there,” Jim shoves him gently then positions himself in the shadow and behind the kid so he can’t be seen.

After being outside, it's a while before his eyes adjust and he can make out the layout of the large space inside; the 'tent', as he suspected, conceals a modern interior: a clinic. He takes in the prefabricated silicone walls, a trio of biobeds lining a wall, medical supplies neatly stacked in open cabinets, and the doc, with his back to them, bent over a bed dealing with his patient. 

There’s a nurse, the woman Jim reckoned was the doc’s woman, fiddling with instruments on a tray. Sulu stands guard, sword in hand, and Monty, seemingly unconcerned that he's lost their prisoner, sits at a desk, a small PADD in his palm, swiping the screen, entirely oblivious to what’s going on around him. Then there’s Nyota with a ridiculous ear piece sticking out of the side of her head, talking into a communication panel.

Jim’s underestimated these guys. They’re organized and the sheer amount of supplies in those cabinets proves they’re providing medical care on a regular basis; that indeed medicine and not crime is their primary focus.

Doc’s calm, moving around purposefully, efficiently, dropping swabs into a basin, fixing his patient up. 

Jim knows the doc shouldn’t be treating this kid, it goes without saying, but what he can’t understand is why: what’s in it for them? Why take such a risk? And who’s god damned paying for it all?

This isn’t funded by few ransom demands, a few petty crimes here and there – this is a big operation with big money. Will knew exactly where to come for help, something that Jim didn’t know when Sam was hurt all those years ago, even with all their family connections.

What confused him is that it didn’t balance out being suspected of being a ‘crat, of treason, wanting to topple the Empire, and replace it with a republic. And that’s what Doc’s crew are involved in he’s certain. Sure Doc’s the soft one; the rest are as much killers as Jim is, but they have a cause, making them not just a collection of pirates but a _brotherhood_. 

Doc’s the one who intrigues Jim the most; medics _never_ go over to the cause, never become ‘crats: they make too much money, and the power over life and death is too alluring. The need to know Doc’s story suddenly feels like most important thing in the world at the moment. He’s shocked to realize he hasn’t cared this much about anything since Sam. In the past, Jim had been an outsider, now he could be on the _inside_ , could see first hand, could _understand_.

“Got him, doc,” Scotty announces getting to his feet. "The stupid wanker's still…ah…” Scotty looks up and points in Jim’s direction, “right there!”

Fuck; before he can move, Jim hears a whirr, feels a pulse go through him, and he crumples helpless to the ground. 

From the ground, he stares up, unable to turn his head. He can barely swivel his eyeballs. He’s almost completely paralyzed.

He realizes this is Monty’s work – Jim’s been struck down by some weapon, or a force-field, yet no-one fired anything. He’s not sure of the exact source, but whatever the device, it’s taken Jim out – completely incapacitated him, yet left him unhurt. He’s surprised he’s not in actual pain – it’s not like the stun setting on a phaser as he’s still awake, aware. But it’s affected his whole body, giving him a dull ache like the after effects of cramp and he literally can’t lift so much as a finger. 

And now – finally – he understands the itch in his neck. It must be how he was located in the first place: they fucking tagged him like a slave when he was unconscious, and even as he feels anger and humiliation wash over him in a turbulent wave, another more rational part of his mind’s pondering how the crude tag can be refined so that hosts – targets – are utterly unaware of it.

He hears Doc’s familiar drawl as he addresses Will. “What did he do to you, kid?”

Jim can’t turn his head but he can hear Will's voice well enough.

“I think he wanted to help, I don’t know – he was… he took my dagger, but he let me go.”

“Now why would you do a damn fool thing like that?” Doc says, his handsome, unshaven features looming close while he runs a tricorder over Jim. “Monty, it’s worked out better than with the bison – he’s not dead at least. All his systems, together with his sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems and critical functions, are operating normally, but almost all his voluntary muscles are completely paralyzed.” 

“Brilliant!” Monty whoops, and Jim hears him bound towards them.

“No epistaxis,” the tricorder whirrs. “He can still move his eyes and – let’s count our blessings – he’s been struck dumb too. And it says here,” Doc deadpans, eyes on the tricorder screen, “he’s an asshole.”

Jim wills his lips to move, feeling his neck color with rage and embarrassment. He should have run; why the fuck didn't he just run?

“You wouldn’t have made it further than half a kilometer from here, Tiberius,” Monty’s saying, like he’s reading Jim’s mind, because his mouth sure isn’t fucking working. “The Tantalus kills, you know. That’s what I designed it for.” He’s proud, excited. “One minute you’re there, next, _whoosh_ – gone without a even a genetic footprint to say you were ever there! The only problem is, Doc won’t let me use it like I want to; says it should be used for good, not evil – ever heard anything so daft?” He chuckles and Jim swears he hears Doc growl in response, though it could be the sound of blood roaring in his head.

Fuck, he needs to move: this is fucking mortifying. 

Monty goes on, “But when I told him I’d left you outside, he said it’d be okay to use you as a test subject. That’s why I untied you: I was hoping you’d run. And," he leans close, "between you and me, laddie, if you died, looks like no one will miss you.”

Jim processes the technical information: Monty has developed a device that can track a target and evaporate him without trace from a distance, but rather than using it to destroy and annihilate his enemies, he’s currently using it like a video game, allowing Jim to ‘escape’ so he can have the satisfaction of hunting him down and an opportunity to test out the new, modified ‘stun’ setting.

Hell, what Jim couldn’t do with a device like that. Maybe he should stick around – like he has a choice. But once he _has_ a choice, then maybe he can make off with it. If there's only one device and he gets his hands in it, he can use it to pick off whoever he wants, maybe claw his way back, till he's in a position to leave Earth and head off into the black to fuck knows where. 

His mind's running through all the permutations when Monty's face is replaced by the Doc.

"Will, you can go talk to your brother now, he should be awake soon enough and it'll do him good if yours is the first face he sees." 

Will rushes to the bed and Jim’s eyes swivel to the circle of faces regarding him as they wait their orders. 

As if things weren’t already humiliating enough, Jim’s empty stomach chooses that moment to gurgle with hunger. Apparently, whatever Monty’s thing can do, it can’t stop him from blushing. 

“Now…” Doc says, one crazy eyebrow almost arching to his hairline. “What shall we do with our little pet here?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Little Wild Bouquet  
part 3 **

Leonard tips the contents of the tray into the incinerator and runs the sanitizer over the biobed, then propping his PADD up, he glances at the screen. “Visual: holding-pen,” he says leaning on his elbows. “Magnify.” He gave Jim something to make him sleep, and though Jim won’t know it, gave him a vitamin shot too.

His features are softer, even younger-looking in repose. Leonard smiles when he spots drool at the corner of Tiberius’ mouth (or whatever the hell his name really is). He’s made a good attempt at covering his tracks – alias easily spotted by Monty, but no viable new name has come up despite Monty’s research. There was a near match with an old Wanted poster from a few years back, a kid called George Samuel Kirk who was on a terrorism watch-list, but despite some resemblance to their guy, especially around the eyes, the teen in the picture is actually too old – or would be. The tricorder showed Tiberius as almost twenty-one though he has the swagger of a man ten years older and a coldness about the eyes that hints at an interesting history. One thing Leonard's sure about is that he comes from wealth – his perfect teeth are clue enough. 

That’s all face recognition has come up with so far, but Nyota’s still working on it. They’ve avoided scanning Starfleet’s site – despite so many being on their side, it’s always a risk in case their probes are traced back to his group. At this rate, he might have to make a few encrypted calls. 

“Nyota, how far have you gotten on the ID?” 

“I’ve messaged a few contacts including our ‘fleet moles; I’m hoping he’s on some wanted list they haven’t released officially yet.”

“Okay, keep me posted.”

“Affirmative, boss.”

Boss. Holy mother of…what the hell would Jocelyn have made of that? His lips curl when he thinks of her and he instructs his PADD to shut down as he strides towards Nyota. She pushes her stool away from the computer so he can examine the screen, not that there’s anything he’d understand. “What’s that one?” His finger stabs the top of the list.

“It just came in as you were speaking; it’s from KLV123.”

“Pike? Well goddamn open it, will you?”

+++

_This is getting to be a bad habit_ is Jim’s first thought as he comes to; if he gets knocked out too many more times, he’ll likely suffer brain damage and be forced to spend the rest of his days cleaning out troughs in the Emperor’s dungeons to eke a living.

The effects of the Tantalus have worn off and he’s unsure whether the boner he’s woken up with is a weird side-effect or if his body’s confused and thinks it’s morning. What he does know instantly is he can stand up whenever he likes, but he stays still, pretending to sleep, needing time to think; he knows he’s being monitored on a vid feed, and just wants a moment’s privacy while taking stock of his situation.

He thinks about rebellion, how, as a concept it fascinates the hell out of him, how it’s so rare, so dangerous in a society where the ones at the top of the food chain can pretty much do as they please, while those below bow and scrape, toeing the line, seeking favors and advancement. Jim never liked to do as he was fucking told and his need to be in charge coupled with boundless talent and an innate understanding of how to get the smartest and ruthless on side resulted in his running the show in his year’s intake at court. Folk rebelled against _him_. If they dared. He crushed them, ostracized them, or brought them onside. 

After all that, he walked out of court, attitude intact, and status in tatters. But he had his pride, right? He grinds his teeth, remembering his mother’s look of despair, the incomprehension when he strode past her and her latest fucking champion. 

Four years he’s been running away, from memories of Sam, from the ‘crat bullshit which caused his death, from his mother, releasing her from worrying about him, from needing to take care of him. Thing is if meantime he’s also been _looking_ for something, he still doesn’t know what that is. Maybe he’ll know when he sees it. 

Under the blanket, his hand moves down to his still-hard cock while in his mind’s eye, hazel eyes, and dark, expressive eyebrows vye for attention with an image of Doc loping across the clearing before he doused Jim in ice cold water. He palms his cock through his jeans, irritated by how his bodily needs cloud his thinking – he really has to get a handle on that. Maybe after he’s taken a few more minutes to...

Jim rolls onto his back, tucking the blanket under his chin, then unbuttoning his jeans to free a very stubborn erection while he tries to work out what the hell it is about Doc that’s getting under his skin, apart from the obvious appeal of his cowboy slouch, his lazy drawl, and fine ass. 

One hand moves lazily up and down his shaft while Jim uses the other to cup his balls, and he realizes with a grin that what’s _keeping_ him interested is Doc’s apparent refusal to be what he’s _supposed_ to be: a functioning, ruthless, cut-throat, self-aggrandizing member of the Empire. He’s a rebel and, Jim’s realising now, that attitude leaks through into the pout of Doc’s lips, the flare of his nostrils and the ironic set of his eyebrows. It’s just hot.

He pulls his hand away from his cock, startled back to the present by a familiar snort and...

“I know you’re awake, unless jerking off in your sleep is standard for you. Open your eyes, dumb-ass.” Doc’s voice is that mix of laid-back-irritated, like it’s just too much damned effort to inform Jim precisely what class of idiot he is. 

Yeah, the voice is definitely one of his favorite things about Doc. Jim’s cock gives a little twitch of approval and he amuses himself by making no effort to hide what he’s doing under the blanket. If they’re going to keep him here, he’s going to make himself at home, because irritating the fuck out of these guys is all he’s got and he’s sure now he’s safe.

They could have killed him again. Either Monty with the Tantalus, or later ‘accidently’ once one of the gang had gotten out of McCoy’s sight. If it had been him, Jim would have risked an agonizer or the booth for the satisfaction – though he hasn’t seen anything like that in the short moments of freedom he’s had. He doesn’t doubt they’ll have the full spectrum of punishment and torture devices in one of the other tents – though something about the doc...well, that just doesn’t fit with his big ‘ol healer bullshit. Still. How else would he keep control? Sulu for one must be itching to take over.

“Well be like that,” Doc says, then adds pointedly, “ _Kirk_.”

Jim’s eyes shoot open.

Doc looks pleased with himself, his right eyebrow arched so high, it almost disappears into a mass of permanently bed-head bangs.

“That took longer than I thought,” Jim says, and has to cough because his throat’s so dry.

“Sure did, but worth it for the punch line.”

Jim’s eyes fix on Doc’s mouth as he chews his lip waiting for Jim to respond. He finds himself wishing the bars of the cage were gone so he could pull the bastard onto the cot and fuck the smirk off his face. “Tell me the punchline, doc, I’m getting cramp waiting.”

Doc shoots a pointed look in the general direction of Jim’s groin, then amused eyes settle back on his face. Doc leans on the bars, the long fingers of one hand curling around the wood, while the other hand jabs an accusing finger.

“You’re a ‘crat too,” he says, tilts his head, waits for a reaction. Jim doesn’t give him one unless the way his neck is flushing counts, heart pounding in his ears, memories crowding back of what it was like the last time someone uttered those words to his face.

Then Jim stood by powerless, watching his brother being cooked, denying all knowledge of Sam’s involvement in the cause. Jim smooth-talked the cops, taking care not to beg, convincing them to comm his tutor at the palace, using every ounce of charm he’d learned to wield and charisma his mother assured him he was born with. He remembers now how the cops exchanged poorly disguised impressed looks when Jim got the royal seal of approval so to speak. 

“Okay kid, you wanna stay, keep out of the way but nothing’s gonna save this little shit.”

He watched, face impassive, as his brother writhed, beat against the booth walls, a fly against a pane of glass, helpless, weak, till he fell in a twitching heap. 

“Fucking ‘crat scum,” Jim heard them mumble. “Now get him the fuck out of here, he’s stinking up the place.”

“Okay, suit yourself,” Doc’s saying, apparently oblivious to Jim’s inner turmoil. “Deny it, but it explains some why you didn’t escape when you thought you had the chance.”

It takes the same reserves of self-control Jim drew on that day to quash down his bubbling rage, to adopt a bored shrug, to sit up in his cot, to tuck away his now-wilted cock and look Doc directly in the eye, to lie to him because how could Doc be expected to understand why the fuck Jim stayed when Jim’s not sure himself? 

“I didn’t escape because your techno-pet has the Tantalus, remember?” Jim folds his arms across his chest, a master of disguising what he feels. He’s had to learn in order to survive court, to make it in the outside world on his own.

“And you didn’t know that when you had the chance.” It’s not an accusation, just a logical summation. “You _wanted_ to stay.” 

“Because I’m a big ol’ asshole like you guys. _Democracy and the needs of the many..._ ” Jim quotes in a simpering tone. He lets out a disgusted breath. “Gimme a fucking break!” He swings his legs out of the bed, stands, and throws his hands out in a gesture he hopes comes off as peaceful, harmless, when in reality he’s harboring so much nervous energy his fingers are fizzing with it. He’s got no restraints now, just the bars separating him from Doc and, potentially, freedom. “Just let me go, man and I’ll be out of here – out of your hair. You don’t need another mouth to feed. Unless…” he leans forward, giving his best leer, amused at how Doc lifts his chin, wrinkles his nose and peers at Jim like he smells bad, “maybe you’re after a sex slave? That it?” Jim raises his eyebrows suggestively. 

It doesn’t escape Jim’s notice that Doc’s cheeks turn pink at that. His eyes sweep Jim up and down, like he’s some kind of idiot, while he slams his medkit shut with, Jim notes in satisfaction, slightly trembling hands. “Infant,” he growls, turning his back on Jim and stomping off towards the tents. 

“Hey, don’t go! I was enjoying our little talk.”

+++

“And that’s it.”

Leonard gazes at the image on screen; Pike’s in a faded sweater, a day-old beard, but he looks every inch the commanding presence he does in uniform. 

“What if Kirk runs out on us too?” he finally says. “He looks desperate for credits – he could pull in a helluva ransom for our hides.”

“He could, if he wanted to blow his cover, and trust me he doesn’t. He’s been laying low for a few years now. Ever since they killed his brother he’s washed his hands of politics. He hasn’t a clue I’m part of the brotherhood. I hoped I could break it to him once he’d enlisted – bring him over. I hadn’t meant to recruit him, not yet, but when I saw him in the bar, you could say I believed fate had dealt me a hand I couldn’t ignore.”

Leonard leans back in his seat and crosses his arms. “But you were wrong, he ran out on you.”

The image of Pike shrugs. “The timing was out, that’s all. I’d underestimated how much he’s grown to hate the system; maybe I should have hinted at the cause but it’s too risky for me, I don’t need to tell you that. Bottom line, he’s not interested in serving the Emperor or in joining Starfleet. So I think we should bring him in clean; you can do that, he must already suspect you’re connected to the ‘cause. Try that route and, if he’s anything like his father, he’ll want to do the right thing. You know McCoy, I’m frankly surprised you and your team didn’t put two and two together. I mean, _Sam_ Kirk, and then Jim’s alias.” He shakes his head and moves closer to the camera. “I bet you suck at crosswords.”

McCoy scowls. Give him a break – he hasn’t slept more than three hours straight in fuck-knows how long. ”I’m a doctor, not Sherlock Holmes.” 

Pike barks out a laugh. “And _there’s_ a good reason to bring him in,” he says, clearly amused. “That kid’s got a brain the size of a fucking planet. He could be a ship’s captain in eight years, and when the times right… You should talk to him. Get him onside now - he can figure out how to fill the holes in your crew. They’re loyal to you, to the ‘crat cause ultimately, but you need a strategist, someone who can think beyond the next job.” 

“Yeah, me an’ my oratory skills,” Leonard says wryly. “Kirk’s an asshole.” And a fucking kid, one with apparently no impulse control, and dumb as pig shit: why he didn’t run when he could is a mystery. But Pike will allow Leonard’s questioning only so far and Pike’s proved himself able to read and understand human nature unlike anyone Leonard’s ever come across, so he _must_ be right... _right_? “ _You’re_ our strategist,” Leonard points out. “You’re in a far better position to plan long-term than he can ever hope to be.” 

Pike nods slightly in affirmation of Leonard’s loyalty. “So you say,” he concedes. “But I know Jim, I’ve been watching him for years, and he _is_ very like his father: brilliant and charismatic. The fratboy shit’s mostly a front, a way of disarming people so they underestimate him.” Pike leans back in his chair and makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “He’s been dealt a rough deal, first his father, then his brother.”

Leonard shrugs. “Welcome to the real fucking world. We’ve all lost people.” 

“That’s true,” Pike nods and leans in, his pale gray eyes intense. “But…it’s more complicated with Jim. He could be anyone, do well for himself. I don’t think you fully understand what he turned his back on. He was the golden boy, yet he’s opted to drop off the charts since he left court prematurely when his benefactor died, rather than forge new alliances. For anyone else that would have been suicide, but I think he’s been biding his time. I’ll warrant he’s been considering coming back to the ‘cause, gods knows he hates the fucking Empire enough.”

Leonard’s not convinced. He wants to ask so many questions, wants to know how the hell Pike knows so much about what the kid wants, who he hates even, when every instinct in him tells him Jim doesn’t have half a clue himself why he didn’t run. And even if Pike is right, from what Leonard’s seen so far, he’s not a team player; he can’t imagine working with someone as unpredictable. 

“He has nothing but contempt for the crew,” Leonard throws in.

“Well that’s a natural, healthy reaction for your average citizen of the Empire – he’s been taught how to do that from a young age, what else would you expect?”

“But if he felt safe, he'd join us, is that what you’re saying?”

Pike sits back and spreads his hands. “Go talk to him, Leonard.” 

Leonard scowls in response to the suggestion – he was kind of hoping he could take a nap before he faced Kirk again. Pike sees his reaction and smiles, a playful twinkle in his eye as he adds, “Better still, leave him with Sulu for a few hours – they have a lot of hot blood between them and if Sulu was persuaded to come over, so can Jim.”

He’s unconvinced and shakes his head, the safety of his people always his first concern. “I can’t risk the lives of my crew. Kirk may not have the licence to kill that comes with completing his court schooling, but he’s pretty lethal by all accounts.”

“So you’ve finally learned how to do research,” Pike teases.

Leonard squashes a grin and glowers instead. “Monty found that out. He was mighty impressed when he heard about this one time in the showers and Kirk ripped some guys tongue out. With his teeth.” Leonard grimaces when he contemplates the diseases _that_ could lead to.

“That’s nothing, Leonard. Dig deeper. He was well on the way to being a legend but, and I quote, ‘I’m not pimping my fucking mother again!’ Unquote.”

Leonard frowns. “And that’s why he left court? The benefactor was his mother’s latest beau and he wanted to protect her?” 

“Beau?” Pike laughs again. ”Leonard McCoy – you’re so damn quaint sometimes it makes me blush!”

Leonard is amused at the attempt to sound like Scarlett O’Hara. This apparent softness is deceiving: he’s all too aware of Pike’s reputation and swift climb, first through the academy, then through the ranks to command his own ship in double-quick time, all of which came with an efficient blur of daggers then blackness. Pike’s approach to their philosophy of democracy is pragmatically upending their mantra of ‘the needs of the many’ into ‘many innocents must die for the final goal’ – which is to ultimately overturn the Empire.

“Well is that what happened?”

“His mom’s a helluva woman, Leonard, but she lost her dowry when George died; like all of us, she had to do what she had to do.”

Of course, that goes without saying. Smart women, ones with breeding and who marry well, can wield their power behind the scenes, affect politics, use their brains to advance their sons and guarantee their own protection in turn, and this is what Kirk’s own mother must have done too; what’s odd is that Pike is stating the obvious almost like he’s defending her…oh. 

“Chris,” Leonard leans towards the screen, “you two ever been sweethearts?” Which would explain how Chris knows so much about Jim, and has a vested interest in his success. Though he can’t imagine it’s as simple as that with Pike who’s spent a lifetime plotting the downfall of the Empire – he’s not the kind of man makes decisions based on romantic love.

Pike’s expression instantly changes to his murderous one, face impassive, his mouth a thin line, eyes of steel, his entire body radiating controlled anger. He’s always tolerated Leonard’s sassy mouth, but something tells the doctor this has hit a nerve and he’s very glad they’re separated by a thousand miles and cyberspace.

“I have a meeting to attend, Leonard. I’ll expect you to have Jim onside by the time I next speak to you.” 

Fine.

They both stand and simultaneously press the open palms of their right hands to their hearts and stare dead ahead. “The needs of the many!” they declaim solemnly. Leonard’s chest swells with feeling as it does every time he utters these words.

“Pike out.” And the screen goes blank.

“Computer: give me Nyota.”

“Boss?” She’s in her pjs, hair loose about her shoulder, face golden and perfect in the computer’s back light. He knows he woke her but there is nothing but willing alertness in her expression.

“Report on James T. Kirk’s mother by the morning, darling. And I want one of your ‘specials’, ‘k?”

“Consider it done, boss.”

+++

After waking at sunrise, Jim stares at the tents for hours, watching, remembering who emerges from where, counting the steps they take from one tent to another, trying to deduce what they’ve been doing all day. He notes with interest that all morning there has been a stream of visitors – patients he realizes – disappearing into the med tent, emerging when they’ve gotten what they came for, each time with an escort, usually Nyota on the way in, Scotty on the way out. He hasn’t set eyes on Doc in hours. It’s given him plenty of time to think about the ‘crats, to go over every single word Sam ever said to him, how he preached about the ‘good of the many’ how he said the Empire was going to implode anyway, how wasteful it was, how merit meant nothing, how someone like Jim could make things happen, how...

“Hey, girlfriend!” 

Sulu’s smirking down at Jim as he sits with legs crossed at the ankle, slouched against the bars of the cage. Apparently he bears Jim no ill will – his nose looks good, all fixed up, and he’s grinning like they’re the best of friends, like he hadn’t tried to beat Jim’s face into a pulp. Fuck him. 

“Wanna let off some steam?”

“Wanna kiss my ass?” Jim says as bored as he can manage, covering up his real feelings a habit, when in fact he’s thrilled to have a visitor at all, someone to break up the tedium now things have quietened down around the med tent.

“Not exactly, but if you were me, I’d be itching for a rumble. And I _am_ me, so…”

“None of those pussies give you a real run for your money?”

“Nope. Haven’t killed anyone in weeks – I’m getting withdrawal.”

Jim smiles, the first genuine smile in god knows how long. This cocky bastard is someone he could be friends with, he thinks, or at least allies...in another universe. He lifts a shoulder nonchalantly. “How do ya know I won’t kill you and make a break for it?”

“The killing isn’t going to happen because I’m a badass motherfucker. See that?” he points to a scar that curves around the right side of his face from his cheek to above his eye. “After I finished torturing the guy who did it, I threw him into an industrial mincer at my cousin’s farm. He squealed like the pigs that got him for dinner.” Sulu raises an eyebrow, all fly-boy charm and self-belief. 

Jim’s grudgingly impressed. “Nice.”

“Also, I have the Tantalus as back-up.” He nods towards the tent. “Monty’s on homoerotic fight watch!” he grins, his voice seductive. 

Yeah, Jim thinks, he’d totally hit that. He weighs up the options: he could sit back down on his cot and brood; or get a good work-out. 

Sulu watches his face with casual interest then says, “Up to you, bro. I can always go fight a sim – we’ve got everything here as you’ll have seen by now. Thing is,” Sulu crouches down, leans close to Jim so hot breath strokes his face, “nothing beats the scent of real blood on your knuckles – don’t need to tell you that, right?” 

There’s not much Jim can say to that except for, “Amen.” He stands up and steps back from the bars as Sulu presses his thumb to the panel. It occurs to Jim he’d have to cut one of their thumbs off to escape the cage.

They walk to the clearing, side by side, with Sulu tapping out a rhythm on his thigh with his sword. He’s whistling nonchalantly like they’re going bird watching or something. When they’re well away from the trees he comes to a halt and throws his sword down. 

“Fists,” he says simply, pulling his dagger out of his boots, throwing that too. “Take your boots off, bro, and the shirt.”

They watch each other in silence as they strip, then Sulu draws an imaginary line on the trodden down grass with his toe. 

“Rules?” Jim wants to know.

“Fuck rules,” Sulu says smoothly. “You and me, fists and teeth – like sex.”

And Jim likes sex. A lot.

+++

Monty's not visible behind the wall of spectators: Nyota, Chapel and the miraculously recovered Gary, his brother – young Will, all huddled around the screen cheering and whooping at the scene unravelling before them. Not that he’s not interested, but just from the incessant commentary for the last ten minutes courtesy of Monty alone – who only pauses to munch another handful of potato chips – he knows damn well how things are going. And there will be crumbs all over the floor, unsanitary asshole. “Hey, Boss! Len – you should come watch this,” Monty suggests.

“I’m busy,” Leonard barks back, gazing unseeingly into the cabinet holding medical supplies. His dick, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have got the message about not being interested. He’ll have to keep his back to the rest of the crew until he’s found something that’ll give him droop. And he needs something now since he’s secretly watching the screen on his comm showing the vid feed, mercifully small images of muscled bodies twined around each other, their grunts and moans on mute though he can hear well enough through the chatter behind him. Leonard’s always been very aural – the sounds of sex what he likes best, what really breaks him, though he’s never confessed that to a living soul. He closes his eyes, takes a long breath in an attempt to compose himself, knowing he sucks at hiding his feelings. 

“There you go, my beauty!” Monty shouts, jumping to his feet!

Leonard snatches up his comm where it’s leaning against a stack of boxes holding disposable hypos and, in his haste, he knocks the whole pile and it teeters and falls at his feet, the comm falling with them. He drops to his knees, hand searching through the pile. Fuck. What happened? Who won? Damn – he’s busting to know; needs it to be Sulu for obvious reasons. He’s the soldier in the crew; they rely on his ruthless streak to keep them alive. Fucking dumb-ass idea to send Sulu in, to get him to try make some kind of connection with Jim, sensing it would be violence or sex that might get Jim to reveal another side to himself; one that would help Leonard know if he was to be trusted or not.

“He’s going to fucking kill him, shit!” There’s glee in Monty’s voice behind him. 

There! His fingers curl round the comm, Leonard takes a calming breath, leaps to his feet and rushes outside blinking against the sunshine. 

Jim’s on his knees, Sulu pulled up so his back’s flush against Jim’s chest, Jim’s arm tight against Sulu’s throat, choking, squeezing despite Sulu’s fingers scrabbling at the tightening, deadly grip.

Kirk!” Leonard rushes towards them, but it feels like slow mo’, like he’s in a dream, unable to move fast enough, his feet heavy, blood pounding in his ears. Jim glances at him, eyes bright, innocent blue but hard, his teeth bared, a killer. How could he have thought for even a second that this…this fucking _bum_ could have anything in him, could be anyone who could help? 

Leonard freezes two strides away, worried to make a wrong move that might cost Sulu’s life, his own. He’s close enough to smell the adrenaline, the blood from Sulu’s split eye, Jim’s lip. 

He’s not seen Jim in sunlight this close yet – not really looked at him – and it’s, _he’s_ …fucking beautiful. Leonard’s mouth fills with bile, even as he moves to throw Jim off, consequences be damned, annoyed that he should be so brainwashed by the macho ideals of the society he was born into, that he should be stimulated by this act of barbarity. 

“Stay!” Jim says simply, tightening. “He’s gonna stop breathing and it’ll be on your hands. Want me to kill your body guard or whatever the fuck he is to you?”

Leonard’s hands drop to his sides. He hopes to god Monty’s snapped out of his spectator mode and has the Tantalus teed up, though he’s not sure if the device, essentially a prototype, is so finely tuned that Sulu won’t die along with Jim if Monty fires it. Damn, he should have paid more attention when Monty droned on about it. It’s like Jim’s read his mind because he adjusts his position so his legs can wrap around Sulu who has lost consciousness. 

“What do you want, Kirk? Safe passage? Just let him go – I’m a man of my word. We won’t chase you, we’ll leave you be and you can go back to wherever the fuck you came from.”

“You’ll kill me – soon as I let him go. I know too much about you, I know where you are. I could bring the Imperial Guards here – they’d pay an emperor’s fucking ransom for ‘crats.”

“You’re not about the money, Kirk.” Leonard crouches down. “Come on, Jim, let me take a look at him. We’ll talk.” Jim holds his gaze, panting, assessing. 

Long seconds pass, and Leonard’s aware of the others behind him, silent, waiting for his orders. He holds up his hand. “I’ve got this, go back inside and, Monty, leave the Tantalus here – toss it over where we can see it.”

The device thuds beside them and he waits for them to go, watching Jim’s eyes as he tracks them. 

Another age passes as Jim decides what to do; he could snap Sulu’s neck if he chose to and Leonard doesn't doubt that the thought’s crossing his mind. Jim could then kill him, and he thinks about the stories he’s read, how in court Jim was untouchable once he’d made examples of some of the bullies who’d singled him out in his first week, killing and maiming with an enthusiasm that soon brought him to the attention, and then the protection, of the older boys.

Now, after the prestige of court life and the power that came with it, Jim’s scrabbling in the dirt – and he knows ways he can pull himself up again. He sees Jim eye the Tantalus, knows he’s thinking this could bring him power unimaginable if he uses it right. 

The device is just an arm’s length away. Leonard waits, his body tense with adrenaline.

Finally, Jim loosens his grip, decision apparently made, and Sulu lolls forward. Leonard lets out a breath, heart drumming wildly in his throat. Jim takes Sulu’s head between his hands carefully, eyes on Leonard as he tilts forward and plants a kiss on Sulu’s forehead before standing, leaving him to drop to the ground in a limp heap. 

Leonard tenses again as Jim walks towards the Tantalus. There’s nothing now stopping him picking it up and using it against his erstwhile captors, annihilating them so completely, no trace of them will be left.

But Jim steps right over it.

Confused, Leonard glances after him as he moves away towards the tent, and sees Jim pick up his comm where he dropped it. Danger over, he breathes a sigh of relief and turns to Sulu. He’s checking him manually for vital signs when he hears, “You got a shower in this fucking dump?” 

For the love of all that’s holy, what have they gotten themselves into with this kid?


	4. Chapter 4

**Little Wild Bouquet  
Part 4**

“Seriously, McCoy, chill.”

Leonard pauses mid rant, relieved to have the opportunity to take a breath. He cuffs Sulu gently across the top of his head. “Least your face ain’t blue now, though some might say it was an improvement before.” He gets a weak grin and presses a hypo to Sulu’s neck – gentler than he’d like to, given the debacle that could have been. 

“Thanks, Leonard.” 

“You’re wel—”

He’s interrupted by, “—Leonard! Ha! No wonder you make ‘em call you Doc! So much more….commanding.” 

Leonard turns to Jim with a scowl. “Shut. The. Fuck _up_!” 

Jim’s sitting on a stool legs splayed, looking about as contrite as, well, one of the Empire’s finest sharks, eyes bright and knowing, relaxed, taking in every nuance of Leonard’s interaction with Sulu. Fucking _judging_ him. Jim’s lip has stopped bleeding but it needs fixing all the same though Leonard’s made sure to make him wait as long as possible.

Sulu hops from the bed, touches Leonard on the arm then moves towards Jim. Leonard’s breath catches – after all Jim nearly killed him; but Sulu lifts his hand for a fist pump and Jim obliges with a grin.

“See ya, bro, and thanks – that was… _real_!”

“Word!” Jim agrees.

Unbelievable! Less than an hour ago and they were both fighting to the death. Once Jim left him tending an unconscious Sulu in the clearing, he made straight for the cage, left the door open, lay down on the cot and waited until Christine found him and brought him to the med tent. He’s still chipped and Scotty’s got the Tantalus permanently tracking him – it’s like Jim’s on self-imposed house arrest, almost like he’s refusing to go.

Leonard waits for Sulu to swagger out and mumbles, “Pair of stupid kids. Infants with no fucking impulse control…pissing contests…” 

He busies himself unwrapping another sterile kit, and re-loads the hypo – _anything_ to delay giving the idiot more attention than he has to. Finally he turns, faces Jim and tries to ignore his blood spattered t-shirt, his torn knuckles, the image of the victorious warrior basking in a glow of self-regard. Smug, sexy bastard. “You could have fucking _killed_ him you, you—”

Jim moves to the exam bed, eyes sweeping Leonard head to toe, making him want to punch him, it turns him on so much.

Jim grins, making his split lip drip blood. “—is this another rant? Because I like those; you go all glowery and, I don’t know, it’s hot.”

“Well, thank you for that seal of approval; means a lot to me, being as how I’m concerned primarily with how hot I look.” Leonard manages not to smile and indicates the bed. “Because keeping people alive is only a passing interest until I find something else to fill my time.”

At that Jim laughs, deep and genuine, a look of indulgence on his face, like Leonard’s a curiosity which, in some ways he is. Jim settles on the bed, his thigh brushing against Leonard’s hip. Leonard steps back, doesn’t look at him and holds the hypo up to check the dose. Again.

“Well Bones, let’s hope I never need you to keep me alive – way you feel about me, I don’t rate my chances of making it out of here in one piece.” Damn, something about the timbre of Jim’s voice is really getting to him and not in a good way.

“I’m not like…” Leonard begins but stops himself; the kid wouldn’t understand how he’s not a regular doctor, not given to advancement, using the power of life and death to negotiate to his advantage. How can he explain how the reward for him is in the _healing_? That’s it. It’s all he’s ever wanted and what he’s got here, temporarily, in this corner of the forest, dishing out treatment like crumbs to those who need it, who have fallen into the gutter thanks to the Empire’s dog-eat-dog stance on its citizens.

But he doesn’t say any of this, making do with, “You’re kidding. _All_ I want is for you to get out of here and to never have to set eyes on you again.” There’s silence when he runs the tricorder over Jim’s face, the kid’s eyes fixed on a point over Leonard’s shoulder. “What, no come back?” Leonard finally snarks. 

Jim looks up at him through long lashes, the faintest of frowns evident. “It’s cool. I’ll go in the morning.”

There’s nothing to say to that because it’s for the best. Pike was wrong about Jim Kirk and, even if he were right, Leonard senses that Jim would skew the dynamics of the group in a way he’s not willing to risk. Sulu’s unconcealed awe has side-barred Leonard – _Jim could have killed him_ echoes through his head for the umpteenth time. But he didn’t and that’s…Leonard sniffs – fuck it, he’s a doctor not a god damned politician; he’ll leave that stuff to Pike and, if Pike wants Jim, he’ll have to bring him over in some other way. 

So Leonard cleans up Jim’s mouth in silence, focusing on the edema, making his mind stay on-task ignoring the heat of Jim’s breath against his fingers, his solid presence, his fucking charisma. Professional – yeah, though there’s something thrumming through Leonard, unsettling him and it’s not just that he’s got this loose cannon among his crew.  
He usually trusts his instincts, but the way Jim didn’t pick up the Tantalus and run, the way he pointedly turned ‘back’ so to speak, making it clear he wanted to stay, well, it’s confusing is what it is.

Leonard finishes up by spraying Jim’s lip with sealant and nods, satisfied with his handy-work. 

“Want my advice, Bones?” Jim finally says, his voice even, non-committal.

“The advice of a kid still wet behind the ears, without a friend or ally in the world? Sure.”  
He steps back and folds his arms registering what? A look of hurt in those luminous eyes? Leonard feels his ears burn and looks away pretending to check the chrono. “Shoot.”

“You need to keep your crew in line.”

Yep, judgemental. “I do,” he growls defensively, then repeats it, because it might have sounded like a question when he wanted to make clear that it was a statement of fact, dammit.

“They’re smart, but they need occupying, leadership, a fucking _plan_. The likes of Sulu, how long do you think you can keep him in the middle of nowhere? Sure, he _thinks_ he’s committed, behind you, but where’s your vision, Bones?” Jim’s eyes are fierce, and he’s animated while he outlines Leonard’s failings, “And as for Monty, and that gorgeous babe, wasshername—”

 

“—She hears you referring to her as babe, I won’t try an’ keep her in line.” Leonard glances in the general direction of Jim’s groin to make his point. “She may not have earned her stripes in court like you well-connected brats, but she’s...well put it like this, I’m sure glad she’s on _my_ side, is all.” He blinks, “And did you just call me Bones? Again?”

“Maybe…” his tongue flickers across pink, full lips. Leonard feels an unwelcome twinge in his cock at the sight.

“Well quit.”

Jim’s eyes sweep Leonard’s face; he lifts his chin, expression all challenge and seduction. “Or else?”

Leonard sighs, angry now, though he’s not sure why exactly. He kind of likes the name, corny and obvious as it is. He can feel Jim’s eyes boring into him, waiting for the threat or come back, just so as he can then dish out more fucking advice.

“Get out of here, Kirk. Take your superior strategy and grand vision somewhere else. You wanna work with the ‘crats, find another outfit. We’re not hiring.”

“Make me.” Jim’s hand rests on Leonard’s bicep.

Leonard's eyes flick to Jim's fingers, back to his eyes and their gazes lock. It's maybe an hour since the fight, since he thought Jim would kill his friend, and now, here is wedged into their lives. This attraction would be an added complication, something that would make it harder to make Jim go. Or maybe easier. 

"Stockholm Syndrome? Great," Leonard whispers, trying to defuse the sexual tension with snark.

"Maybe in reverse," Jim offers, eyes sly, knowing. Jim's fingers are hot, the pads rough and they press a little harder into the bare skin of Leonard’s arm.

"What? You arrogant, deluded..."

"I picked up your comm, remember? Out there." 

So he did. Leonard’s eyes drop to Jim’s lips, and he makes a decision, grabs the back of Jim’s neck and yanks him forward so their mouths are almost touching. Jim strains so very slightly against the pull. “Give it back.”

“I dunno, Bones,” Jim’s voice is low, almost a whisper, the grip tightening on Leonard’s arm so it hurts. “That was an easy passcode to crack. A birthday? Seriously? And you a criminal type and all.”

“Shut up.” Leonard leans in and, to his irritation, Jim moves his head back and away from him, chuckling.

“You need guidance,” Jim says loosening his hold, and finding Leonard’s other hand braced on the bed, guides it to his groin. “Need someone with vision,” he explains patiently, like he’s talking to a child when Leonard’s half a dozen years older, got a fucking kid of his own for chrissakes. He rests his hand over Leonard’s where it lies, over his erection straining against denim, “I mean, I don’t even know you, but I figured out something—”

“And what might that be?”

“—That you know what you want, yet you fight it.”

“Yeah?”

Leonard’s not going to move his damn fingers, despite Jim’s hand pressing down over his hand; fuck him and his arrogant ‘take what I want’ shit.

“You were watching the rumble on your comm, stream was still open, which tells me you didn’t want the rest of your crew to know you gave a damn.” Lips so damned close, warm breath dancing over Leonard’s mouth, teasing, taunting.

“I was busy.” Damn, that sounds lame. “Needed to know Sulu would be alright. Wanted to see him kick your ass.”

“Why didn’t you watch it with everyone else? Or come outside?”

He asks too many questions. Good fucking questions. “I…”

Jim’s still straining against the hold on his neck but his lips are so fucking inviting. He’s playing Leonard, _making_ him act. Fuck.

“Been a while, Bones?”

“Why you arrogant little shit.” Their mouths crash together, good thing he did such a great job on Jim’s lip, Leonard thinks vaguely as his tongue slides into Jim’s mouth, as his hand scrabbles at Jim’s fly made awkward by the fact that Jim’s wound his legs round his back and is pulling him close, closer, tongues warring, slick and hot and hungry.

He tries to push Jim away so he can say something, but Jim only clamps his legs tighter, his stubble rubbing raw across Leonard’s jaw and cheeks as they adjust, as the biting subsides and they settle for a marginally less heated but still desperate exploration of each other’s mouths. Jim’s lips are chapped yet soft and pliant, his tongue probing, but it’s Leonard who gains the upper hand, using his greater bulk to wrestle Jim onto his back, climbing onto the bed between his legs, tugging one handed, clumsily at Jim’s way too tight jeans. He’s damned if he’s going to let go of the back of Jim’s neck and risk slowing things down. Part of him knows he might change his mind if he drags his attention away from the immediate, his whole-body ache, the itch beneath his skin – which he’s counting on will go away for good once he’s fucked this stupid kid into the bed.

Jim shimmies beneath him, chuckling against his mouth, sliding both hands down the back of Leonard’s (thank god) much looser cargo pants. It’s no good, he’s going to have to pull his lips away from this blinding heat so he can get the leverage to undress Jim. Mistake because it gives Jim the opportunity to smirk up at him. His hair’s wild, lips slick with saliva, cheeks and neck flushed with arousal, t-shirt twisted around his chest revealing a filigree of scars on his chest and broader, rougher tracks over his ribs – fucking beautiful, Leonard manages to keep in his head. 

“What the hell are you smirking at?”

“I was right,” Jim sneers dropping his arms to his waistband so he can meet Leonard half-way and help him.

Leonard narrows his eyes, glances over his shoulder at the tent entrance. The rest of the crew are in the mess tent but if they’re discovered…”Computer, lock shield, deny access other than medical override.” Christine will still be able to get in, but he’s counting on the fact that she’s probably clucking around Sulu as usual and won’t care where he is. He often takes a nap on the bed in the middle of the day and…

“Bones?”

“What?” he snaps, even as he works Jim’s cock out of his fly with one hand, the other tugging the infernal jeans lower so they stay around mid-thigh which, given Leonard’s impatience, will just have to do for now. He runs a finger along Jim’s cock, from base to damp tip, eyes settling on Jim’s face when he hisses in response, lifting his ass off the bed to encourage more contact.

Amused eyes, lidded and dark watch his movements and, to his surprise, Jim does nothing to guide Leonard’s hand, only lets out little gasps of approval when he’s touched right.

Leonard pins Jim down, marvelling at how dark his own skin is in comparison, where his fingers clamp down skinny hips also decorated with scars as well as more recent contusions courtesy of Sulu. He can see finger sized bruises on Jim’s arms from where they wrestled too and it lights up a storm of possessiveness or jealousy or some such inconvenient and unwelcome feeling deep in his chest. It has him squeezing his fingers tight above honey coloured hair, tracing Jim’s happy trail then dragging a nail along his slit. The sounds Jim makes, muffled grunts and ‘uh-uh’s when Leonard begins to squeeze harder, wind into him, have Leonard kneeling up on the bed and pressing his own cock, still trapped in his clothes, hard against Jim’s balls, the friction inadequate for what he wants, but the need to unravel this sassy little fuck is stronger than the need to get off himself.

“Keep still,” Leonard growls, amused at the irritated, surprised moan this elicits. “You’re used to getting things your own way, huh?”

This time Jim manages a breathy “Bones…”

Leonard smiles in satisfaction taking the opportunity to drink in the expression of wanton abandon on Jim’s face now his eyes are closed and he’s allowing himself to completely let go, something which Leonard senses is uncharacteristic, though it crosses his mind that even this is planned – some way of showing him Jim wants to stay.

“Harder, Bones…” Jim lifts his legs a little, bucking into Leonard’s hand, his face bathed in sweat, teeth bared, moans ragged and needy.

“Like this?”

Leonard leans forward to press his mouth to Jim’s, to slide his tongue in softly and he squeezes harder, swallowing Jim’s choked moans as he spills over his hand which he continues to move up and down even as Jim’s grip on Leonard’s shoulders loosens and he falls back, eyes closed, breathing heavily. Somehow he senses Jim likes the fact that it’s too much, the way he twitches through the after-shocks, gasping, “fuck, fuck…” while Leonard smears his cum over his belly.

“Gods,” Jim whispers then he laughs. “Nothing wrong with your leadership skills in the bedroom.”

“And there I was enjoying the silence,” Leonard says wryly, disentangling himself from Jim’s legs and wiping his hand on Jim’s jeans. Jim watches, stretches. “I wasn’t silent, just incoherent. Doesn’t happen often.”

Leonard’s wants to lean in and kiss him because, dammit, it’s _his_ turn, when Jim pulls away, sniffs his own armpit and wrinkles his face. “Damn, I smell bad.” He sits up and pulls his t-shirt down to cover his stomach, then steps off the bed to wriggle back into his jeans.

“I didn’t like to say – might have ruined the moment.” Leonard frowns, wondering what the fuck the kid’s up to now. Is he really walking out? Leonard adjusts himself when Jim’s back is turned and tries to look nonchalant which, face it, he must suck at.

Jim glances over his shoulder from the doorway. “Let me out, Bones, I need to take a shower. Even more now.” He waggles his eyebrows. Leonard gapes and Jim smiles a smile which makes him look older than his years, then nods his head in a ‘come on’ gesture.

“What, you’re just gonna leave?” _me like this?_ Leonard adds in his head.

“Nah, not gonna leave, Bones, there’s too much to do around these parts.” He turns from the tent flap. “I’ll be in your quarters, then I’m going to grab a bite to eat – those grits…” he wrinkles his face and shudders. “Never again.”

And with that, he’s gone and Leonard gapes after him, hard and confused as fuck.

+++

Leonard goes for a long horseback ride to get his head straight and then settles in front of his computer.

There’s no sign of Jim, just a wet towel drying on the stand, and evidence he’s been through Leonard’s clothes and helped himself to a few. He didn’t ask, he didn’t say thanks, and Leonard would have been surprised if he had.

Pike unexpectedly answers his vid call personally; usually there’s a whole rigmarole with Nyota sending encrypted comms first. Looks like he’s in luck.

“Sir, we have a problem,” Leonard says wearily.

“Kirk?”

Leonard nods. “You could say he’s made himself at home.”

“Why’s that a problem? You and I know he’ll be an asset to the group; we talked about this.” 

“With due respect, sir, I’m not convinced. He…” Leonard runs a hand through his hair, then pinches the area between his eyebrows , before trying again. “I don’t know how easy he will be to control – he’s kind of wild.” 

Pike laughs. “He’s not. That kid’s smart, capable and yeah, deadly, but he’s never out of control. He’s a natural leader, McCoy, just make sure he has something to lead.”

Leonard shakes his head. “He nearly killed Sulu. They were sparring, okay maybe more than sparring, but he had Sulu in this headlock – he’s lucky to be alive.” Leonard holds back on the details of the ‘negotiation’. Pike doesn’t know about the Tantalus – it has nothing to do with him, and the credits needed to develop their device come from Monty and Uhura’s private fortunes, though the innovation is all the Scot’s. 

Leonard thinks back to how Jim stepped over the Tantalus, and it occurs to him that it was a calculated move designed to disarm him, to have Leonard believe he _wasn’t_ interested in it, but what if this bullshit about Jim and the ‘crats is off the mark? What if Jim meant for Leonard to take his eye off the ball? What happened between them - and he feels a surge of angry lust when he recalls those hypnotic eyes, that yielding body - fuck, he’s been _played_. Jim could obliterate them all, Leonard included, then he could make off with the device without danger of them finding him. Christ and they just...

“McCoy, Len – what’s wrong?”

Leonard swallows, “I just remembered I forgot to order some…supplies. Clinic day tomorrow and you know how it can get…” His cheeks burn and, not for the first time, Leonard wonders how he’s made it this long, this far; he’s a fucking idiot. He clenches his hands, covers up, breathes - he’s been told so many times how he’s an open book.

He meets Pike’s cool eyes, the man whose life he saved but who may decide on a whim that enough recompense is enough and cut Leonard loose, leaving him to sink back into the faceless mob, medical license _still_ revoked, and Leonard having to fend for himself. Last update, Pike said he’d been talking to a few contacts and that ‘things are looking promising’, reminding Leonard how dependant he is on his mentor – without whom he’d be just another ‘crat on his own, sleeping with one eye open, waiting for that knock on the door, for the Imperial Guards to dump him in a cell for the rest of his days – if he’s lucky. 

And what will become of Joanna then?

“Sir, is there,...you know, I was thinking, is there any progress on the little matter of my m—?“

Pike gives him a look, one that means _you give me what I want, I’ll think about it_. In other words, sort out the Jim Kirk situation. Fuck, Leonard’s so _owned_. He daren’t say another word on the matter and grinds his jaw.

“So, I just wanted to give you an update, Sir.”

“Well get to it, soldier, you’ve got work to do. Pike out.”

Head in hands, Leonard stares at the blank screen and loses track of time while he goes over his shitty life, his lack of options, while trying to focus on the shared cause, the reason he’s underground and working against the Empire. Then his mind wanders, he thinks about Joanna, thinks about Jim, he remembers Nyota’s report from that morning.

He calls it up and reads it again, then sits back in his chair and cricks his back.

Then something occurs to him. Yep, if Pike’s going to gain out of this, so is he, Leonard thinks; and maybe – just maybe – Jim can be the one to give them _both_ what they want. 


	5. chapter 5

**Little Wild Bouquet  
Part 5**

Unlike the med tent, the mess isn’t enhanced by hologram finery - there’s just a food replicator balanced on a crate, a coffee machine resting on another, three fold up tables, as well as a mis-matched set of garden chairs picked up from dumpsters, and a holvid projector, something Monty insisted they bring in or he’d ‘take his fucking genius elsewhere’.

Leonard’s mouth falls open when he sees Monty heads together with Jim, who’s jabbing at the Tantalus screen. 

Wait. _What?_

They’re so engrossed that, at first, they don’t notice Leonard gaping at them. Monty’s nodding, a look of wonder on his face, leaning on his elbow, eyes darting from the screen to Jim and back again as Jim apparently fine-tunes the device. 

It could be a scene from kindergarten, two children playing innocently in the sandbox, testing their toy daggers on each other; only this ‘toy’ is a device small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, that can kill, obliterating all sign of the victim and, so Monty assures him, can’t be detected by probes. 

“There, Scotty,” Jim says placing the Tantalus on the table. He claps his hands together then rubs them. “Done!” Taking up a half-eaten sandwich from his plate, Jim chews open-mouthed, watching Monty’s face for a reaction. 

“So it is, Jim, so it is...” Monty shakes his head in wonder. 

Gods, just how fucking smart is this kid anyway? And persuasive? Strike that – manipulative fits; up till now, Monty’s not so much as let anyone else closer than ten meters of the damn thing. 

They both look towards Leonard simultaneously, almost as if they heard his teeth grinding.

“Bones!” Jim’s grinning like a fucking Cheshire cat – one that got the cream _and_ has feathers stuck in its teeth, Leonard thinks, making a tremendous effort to stop himself returning the smile because _dammit_ he’s pissed. 

He fails to eliminate the irritation in his voice. “Monty, a word?” He frowns, nodding to indicate Monty come closer.

“There’s nothing you can say my old pal here can’t be party to, eh, lad?” Monty slaps Jim on the back then ruffles his hair. 

Jim pushes his chair away from the table and winks at Monty, raising his hand in an expansive gesture. “Nah, go ahead, man, I’m cool – I’ve got this to keep me entertained.” He waves the Tantalus then brings it closer to his face, squinting at the screen. 

“Uh-huh, _no way_ , Jim, I’ll take that if you don’t mind.” Monty pulls the device from Jim’s fingers and slips it into his back pocket with a look that said, ‘You must think I was born yesterday.’ 

Jim’s smile doesn’t waver. He picks up his plate and pops a crust into his mouth while contemplating the two of them. It’s an effort for Leonard to drag his gaze away from Jim’s lips; he tries to re-direct the heat building in his belly into glowering at Monty.

“Am I in trouble, boss?” 

Monty, bless his soul, actually looks concerned. “Lower your fucking voice, Montgomery.” Leonard’s eyes slide anxiously towards Jim then settle on Monty’s face.

“Montgomery is it? Looks like it’s the naughty step for yours truly.” Monty brings himself up to his full height and his hand moves to his knife. 

Leonard knows that Jim will be waiting to see how he handles this. Fuck him sideways. He’ll handle things how he always does. Monty’s scary as fuck when he wants to be but he’s entirely loyal to Leonard and not interested in pissing contests. Long as he’s safe to run crazy projects and _make_ shit, he’ll do anything for you. No one outside of their small circle, and most certainly not Pike, knows about the device.

Leonard folds his arms, fixing Monty with his patented glare, and says in a stage whisper so Jim _can_ hear, “You _let_ him fiddle with the Tantalus? Are you out of your goddamned _mind_?” Okay, maybe that didn’t qualify as a whisper.

“What if I did?” Monty says breezily, playing with the hilt of his dagger. “You lot never show any interest in the bloody thing.” He nods in Jim’s direction. “But Jim, he asked questions, had suggestions and, well, he’s come up with some brilliant ideas.” His eyes light up and he uses the dagger to draw an imaginary diagram in the air between them. “As it stands, the device has certain limitations; when you locate a target, you have to keep it in your sights to eliminate it, but Jim here thinks big; he said what if there are two targets moving in two opposite directions, or more than two?” Leonard manages not to flinch when Monty’s knife stabs the air dangerously close to his eyes, presumably to represent said targets. “Jim showed me how, with simple modifications, we can lock on both and zap them simultaneously – it’s bloody brilliant!” Monty grins, flips the dagger in his hand, catches it by the hilt and slips it into the top of his boot. “Well that’s what we’re working on – we’ve already sorted out the problem of the target being in too close proximity to an innocent bystander,” Monty leans close, “so if Jim tries to strangle Sulu again, we _can_ kill him and our lad will be fine.”

“Oh _good_.” Leonard grabs Monty’s arm, spins him so their backs are to Jim, “Did it ever occur to you that a) you don’t know him from Adam? b) he nearly killed Sulu and, oh let me see, oh _yeah_ , c) he COULD KILL US!” Leonard turns to shoot metaphorical daggers at Jim who’s sitting smiling at them like they’re two puppies fighting over a slipper. The ‘daggers’ fall harmlessly to the floor, so to speak. Leonard stabs a finger accusingly in Jim’s direction, his easy posture – all arrogance and self-admiration – getting under his skin. “And don’t tell me ‘a leader doesn’t lose his temper with his men’. Women, whatever!” 

Monty blinks, “Doc, it’s fine, don’t worry.” He drops his voice. “I couldn’t see the harm in picking the youngster’s brains – he’s a smart cookie, that one.” He hooks the dagger into his boot and pats Leonard gently on the shoulder. “And I was right; no harm done. I’m off. You two look like you have a whole lot to talk about.” He pushes past Leonard and pauses to add, “If he tries anything, it’ll be my pleasure to kill him, okay?” 

Leonard draws in a quick breath, “No one will be killing anyone. What are you - fucking tom cats?” He dismisses Monty’s unrepentant expression with an eye roll and storms over to Jim, looming above him, panting.

“This is my fault, isn’t it?” Jim says, narrowing his eyes. Well, if Jim’s finally accepting some responsibility for his actions... Jim cocks his head, whispering conspiratorially, “I shouldn’t have left you high and dry like that. It’s made you tense.” Jim’s eye twitches; fortunately for him, this doesn’t turn into a wink – Leonard might have had to snatch Monty’s dagger and use the goddamned thing. 

“Unbelievable.”

From the moment he entered the mess, Leonard’s been able to feel the pull of Jim’s charisma, how all his doubts are popping like little bubbles around his head; his mind struggles to find a reason to give a damn that Jim’s inveigled his way into the group, that he came so close to killing Sulu because, well, he _didn’t_ did he? 

Now the arguments _for_ Jim staying seem real and bright: First, Pike’s never fucking wrong about anyone – he has the keenest sense of a man’s ability Leonard’s ever come across. Then, try as he might, Leonard can’t erase the image of Jim stepping over the device outside the tent. He knows, can fucking _feel_ it in his bones that Jim was saying something with that, the way he walked right back into the cage. Just what? _What_ does he fucking _want?_ Nyota’s intel shows that he’s spent the past few years moving from one casual job to another: no bar work or car shop for Jim Kirk. Instead it’s been hacking, one case, at least, of assassination and – this is what peaked Leonard’s interest – a handful of kidnapping cases. Nyota informed Leonard in her report that Jim has at least three aliases he’s fond of; the fact that he’s wanted to stay under the radar bodes well for Leonard too.

Leonard clenches his fists and breathes; he’s overthinking. Fuck. _Fine_. There is that thing he needs Jim’s help with, something that will prove his worth, his ability to work with the group, and show whether or not he can be trusted. He’ll just have to find the right moment to broach the subject.

“Kirk, it isn’t our way to sit on our asses all day – go muck out the goddamned horses or something; earn your dinner.” He looks around the tent. “And where the hell is everyone?”

Jim sits up, unperturbed by Leonard’s fuming; and is Leonard imagining the victorious sheen in those eyes? Probably not – the little shit.

“First, I think helping untangle the problems in the Tantalus kind of qualifies me for my dinner, which I ate already, by the way.” They both look down at Jim’s plate, back up, and Leonard feels himself redden when their eyes catch for a split second. Jim leans forward his eyes sweeping Leonard’s flushed features then goes on, “But, since you’re asking: Sulu’s compiling a weapons inventory – I gotta say, surprised you haven’t got one, Bones.” He raises his eyebrows, amused by what he sees as Leonard’s failings. “And Nyota’s making a list of moles in the immediate area…” Jim looks thoughtful. “I don’t think she likes me, Bones—”

Course she doesn’t – if anyone’s likely to see through Jim’s bullshit, it’s her. Yet still she’s running around fulfilling his commands. Leonard’s eyes roll so far back in his head he almost makes himself dizzy. “I can’t understand why that would be, Kirk.” He spits the words, dragging a chair far enough away to avoid any accidental brushes up against Jim’s leg; anything which might stoke the arousal he can feel bubbling deep inside him like a background hum whenever he’s anywhere near the infuriating little bastard. He turns the chair around, sits cowboy style across it, leaning his chin wearily on his hands. Taking in Jim’s expectant look, he drops his voice. “Look, Kirk, we need to talk.”

Jim’s smile fades and he nods. “You’re worried; that makes sense. The group’s unstable.” His eyes narrow as he thinks, probably mentally running through observations made while in captivity. “You want my advice—”

“—Actually I don’t,” Leonard mumbles.

“As an outsider looking in, Bones, the problem with the group, your crew, gang, whatever... is that you’ve got a clash of cultures going on.” Jim gazes at Leonard’s face, eyes intelligent, all-seeing, and he blinks as though considering how to explain his point. “It’s like this: take the difference in philosophy, in approach, between the Empire as it stands and, you know, the ‘crat way.” Jim gets to his feet and picks up his plate; all that’s left of his meal is an apple core, and he tosses it into the trash, programming the replicator while he goes on. “See, we good citizens of the Empire, we’ve all gotten used to giving orders or taking them, unquestioning,” ( _We?_ ) Jim continues, “And it’s cool in some ways if you’re the one on top. And I _like_ being on top.” Jim’s eyes gleam and Leonard closes his own for a second to reign in his temper, his desire, all those things that Jim seems to rake up in him with one look, one word.

“Go on…” he says testily.

“You want something?”

Jim’s got his back to Leonard, who blinks, struggling not to stare at his ass. “What? Yeah – coffee, no cream, sugar.”

“But us,” Jim continues, “we’re ‘on the other side’,” he air-quotes, picking up his glass of water and sipping while he waits for the coffee to appear. “We believe in everyone having a say, all that bullshit.”

And it absolutely doesn’t escape Leonard’s notice how Jim’s unconsciously affiliated himself with them, with ‘crats. “In one breath you say ‘we’ then call it ‘bullshit’ – see, that’s why you’re trouble,” Leonard grumbles.

The corner of Jim’s mouth twitches and he brings the coffee over, placing it before Leonard with a flourish. “This feels like a date,” he grins and sits down, long, pale fingers wrapped around his glass. He licks his lips, continues, ignoring Leonard’s brimstone look. “So…you don’t trust me, I get that. But you’re a ‘crat, Bones – act like one. _You_ want me out, fine, but make it a group decision, like a ‘crat would, not like one of them – how the Empire runs things. _Ask_ your crew, Bones, ask _them_ what they think.”

Leonard prickles at that; he _has_ asked for advice, at least from Pike. “You want me to consult the group before or after you’re done ingratiating yourself?” He sips his coffee, pushing away the memory of the feel of Jim’s cock in his hand such a short time ago. “You going to sleep with everyone?”

“Ha! Don’t think I’m Nyota’s type,” Jim chuckles. “Hey, do you reckon that’d work?” His eyes are bright with amusement.

“What about you, Jim, if you were – god forbid – the leader of this outfit, would you ask? I get the feeling you’re the kind makes decisions in a shoot-ask-questions-later kinda way.” 

Leonard is surprised when Jim actually thinks about this.

“Sure, sometimes, but any men under me would believe they had a say in things.” Spoken like a true ‘crat only he has the history of one of the Empire’s elite – hell, the kid reminds him of Pike. It occurs to Leonard that this is exactly what would make Jim such an asset to the cause: he has a foot in both camps; can think like a ruthless Empire shark, yet has the ‘crat cause ingrained in him; Leonard knows about George Kirk, knows about Winona’s beliefs and now he can see a shadow of their way of thinking in everything Jim says. Thing is, he’s so fucking young, so arrogant...he needs reining in, but who’s gonna do that? 

“Even if it wasn’t true, sheesh, you’re just a kid…what do you know about loyalty, _belief_? You think with your dick. Way I hear it, when you were cock-of-the-pile in court; you didn’t do a lot of askin’. Fact of the matter is, you could be the fucking poster boy for the Empire – terror is how you advanced yourself.”

Their eyes catch and Jim holds his gaze sending a shudder of heat skittering down Leonard’s groin. “No one’s a fucking kid, Bones, and you don’t know shit about me.” Jim’s voice is suddenly tight and there’s another twitch of his left eye, an involuntary tic Leonard knows he could fix; a tell like that could cost Jim his life. “And, if you recall, the _only_ trace of ‘terror’ I’ve fucking shown you is when I was _defending_ myself against Hik.”

So now he has a nickname for Sulu too. Awesome.

“Yeah, you’re a choir boy; I get it.” 

Jim’s far from it of course, but Leonard’s beginning to understand why he’s feeling so conflicted, why he wants to trust Jim while at the same time wishing he’d just disappear. He’s always had complete faith in his instincts; since he’s been working with Pike Leonard’s learned he has an instinct for those he can trust, he can feel it in his gut. What he’s realising now is that all his misgivings come from his rational mind, the part of him which demands evidence. Thing is, Leonard’s yet to understand _why_ Jim wants in – if it’s to run things, why pick a bunch of ‘crats? Why not find a group of real bandits? There are enough of those in the forest and they’d be easier to control in traditional ways; ways that Jim’s history proves he’s more than at ease with.

Maybe if he finds out more about Jim’s history...

“Who did you piss off, Kirk? How come you were, you know, out here?” He gestures to the outside. “The forest’s full of predators ya know? You could have gotten yourself killed.”

“I’ve been in worse places,” Jim remarks vaguely, “and you’re ‘good’ guys right?” 

There’s that sneer again.

“Mixed messages, that’s the fucking trouble. Again. Saying ‘good’ guys like we’re defective or something.” Leonard drops his voice out of habit. “You know how the ‘crat thing works: it’s about the greater good – you gotta be focused, and sometimes it means individual sacrifice.” Something which is an anathema to the average citizen of the dog-eat-dog Empire. Not that Jim Kirk is average anything...

“I know all about sacrifice,” Jim snaps.

Yeah, Jim’s brother, his dad, but they’re _losses_ , not sacrifices. What Leonard can’t imagine is Jim giving something up for the greater good, putting his own needs aside, and that’s what he’d have to prove he could do if he wants to become part of their group. 

Leonard takes a deep breath, stares at his hands, the cup of coffee, okay… “What about your mom? You abandoned her didn’t you? _Why_ would you do that Jim? How the hell is that a show of loyalty? You can’t stick with family – how can we even begin to trust you?”

Something dark passes across Jim’s face and he stands abruptly, features twisted into a half-controlled, murderous sneer. “What _the fuck_ does my mother have to do with this?”

And he’s gone before Leonard can come up with any kind of answer.

+++

Jim stands in the clearing and wipes a fine mist of sweat off his nose. The autumn night’s humid, still, quiet as if the birds themselves are waiting to see what he’ll do next. He feels suspended, reluctant to move forward yet feeling an invisible pull towards Bones, the man, towards one person, contrary to everything he believes in.

Jim struggles mentally against the downward drag of his sentiment, the way all reason and logic has become mired in the soft side of his heart, a side Jim thought he’d buried when he turned his back on a dying brother. 

He chews his lip, lets out a sigh, considers his options, thinks, thinks…

He could leave. Sure he’s tagged, but that’s nothing new, he can figure out how to disable the chip – that shit’s easy: he’s done it for others, made a few credits out of it too; and now he’s had an inside look at how the tag’s programmed. 

And if he left, where would he go? Yeah, the world’s his fucking oyster, he thinks bitterly, one he’s picked clean already, one that has no appeal. One thing the Empire doesn’t teach you is what if you _can_ have everything you want? What if it’s relatively easy – what’s to fucking cherish about that?

If he leaves, he’s lost nothing. Gained nothing, unless...

The Tantalus would make him invincible. He could make off with it, or stay and have a ready-made crew to lead. Damn, he’d be insane not to take advantage.

Bones is the thing standing in the way here. Jim could, _should_ turn the group against him and force him out; better than having to kill him though that would be efficient, easier. It would be the logical thing to do – the way he’s trained himself to think, the way his mother insisted he be _seen_ to operate – always.

But the loyalty of the group – how could he maintain that with Bones gone? The way they look at Bones, look up to him, fucking _love_ him – Jim’s never seen anything like it before. He’s witnessed respect borne out of accomplishment, brains, fear, but not this. He thinks about the looks exchanged between Bones and Christine, the way Hik speaks about him, Scotty’s easy capitulation just now in the tent despite his bravura show with the dagger. They’re loyal to him, and Jim suspects, would die for him.

They’re a fucking family, he thinks bitterly – what he used to have before Sam was taken from them, before he cut all ties with his mother, something – he’s disgusted to admit – a long-hidden part of himself wants again, a craving resurrected when he saw that kid standing outside the med tent while Bones put his brother back together. Maybe, Jim allows, it’s time he recognizes that he _wants_ this. 

No. This irritating notion of belonging, he needs to crush it because it emasculates him, has him lose focus. When Pike approached him in the bar, trying to persuade him to enlist in Starfleet, Jim could have been enticed back into the system, back to family, back to weakness and attachment and co-dependence. What he’s got to remember is that one goes down you all do – better to be alone. Always. And Jim’s sure his mother was behind Pike trying to get him to enlist, more proof he needs to get out.

Then he sneers in disgust, when his compulsion to be honest with himself, to be self-aware, means he has to face another part of this complex truth, maybe even the real answer to why he wants to stay. _Bones._ Jim feels a shot of heat when the sense memory of those sure, rough fingers on him comes crashing back, when he relives the way Bones looked right into him, past Jim’s bullshit before soft, reluctant lips claimed him. Fuck.

“Jim.” He’s startled by his name uttered in that fucking southern drawl he had no idea he had such a kink for. Yeah, this bastard’s going to fell him and Jim needs to cut him out now, before… 

He spins to face Bones. “What the _hell_ do you want?”

Bones’ shoulders hang a little low, like he’s got a burden and a half, like he can feel the weight of the heavy silence around them, the humid air. “We need to talk.” His hand lifts a few inches towards Jim, as if he’s about to stay him. Jim glowers at it and Bones drops his hand, stuffing it safely into his pocket.

“No, we don’t, and I don’t wanna talk about my mother – she’s dead to me.” He holds himself more erect, spreading his legs, raising his chin, knowing how to appear not to give a shit – it’s kept him alive this long.

“She’s on your side, Jim, she’s – well I’ve had Nyota run some checks on you, on your background and there’s something…”

Of course Winona’s on Jim’s side, she always has been – that was never in question. He’s made the break from his mother, and he’s damned if he’s going to get close now, when even the mere mention of her gets him all riled up. 

Jim frowns, shaking his head. “Listen man, I need to get the fuck out of here. This was a mistake, staying. I’ve got plans, big plans, and none of this,” he gestures, sweeping a hand across the tents, the fucking clinic, stopping to point a finger at Bones and his god-damned expressive eyes, “none of this is real.” Yeah, like his bs about ‘big plans’.

“This, what we do _is_ real, Jim. And if you’re half the man George Kirk was, if he taught you anything—”

Jim baulks. No-one knows – _no-one_. How could Bones have any idea about his father’s politics, kept hidden from everyone except Winona? Who the fuck told Bones? Jim’s convinced someone big is behind all this – someone with power…Bones is acting on a wider agenda here, like he’s recruiting almost, why else would he bring George Kirk into this? First Pike, now Bones, why the fuck can’t people leave him alone?

“—How the hell could a dead man teach his son anything? _Tell me_!”

Bones doesn’t break eye contact, eyebrows drawn together, teeth clenched like he’s trying to hold back, considering what he should reveal. They’re dancing around each other – Bones wants something, Jim can fucking taste it.

“Jim… I’ve got a proposition for you, though I’m crazy to consider it.”

“This ‘crat bullshit?” He snarls the words out, shaking his head slowly. “Man, what makes you think I give a crap?”

“I don’t know, I’m taking a gamble.” Bones glances round the clearing, “But this isn’t the place, we can’t talk here.”

Cameras, of course, but what can it be that Bones doesn’t want his own crew to know?

When Jim stays put, Bones tries again, “Come on, Jim, my place, not here. We need to talk…”

Jim nods, and Bones turns, striding off towards his tent, quarters, whatever, ass tight and delicious in his jeans, long limbs moving easily. Jim licks his lips and follows, surprised at himself, at this attraction which is proving to be annoying and inconvenient.

They reach the tent just as Nyota and Christine walk past; Jim turns to watch them heading towards the mess amused at how Nyota visibly stiffens when she sees him, how Christine seems almost unaware of his presence, yet they both greet Bones warmly with a “hey, Doc!” and he responds with a small nod and a forced smile. Jim’s taken a step back now, both of them adopting casual poses like they’ve been talking about the goddamned wildlife.

“They look up to you,” Jim says when they’re out of earshot.

Bones shrugs. “They’re some of the finest brains in the Empire, everyone here is, but they’ve all fallen through the cracks, you know how it goes.” Bones lets out a heavy breath, hazel eyes examining JIm’s face, “and it’s not me, you idiot, it’s the cause. I’m just a simple country doctor.” He clears his throat. “Go on, get in.” He lifts the tent flap back, letting it drop behind them. Jim watches him fasten the flap so it’s effectively ‘locked’ and scans the interior, the portable heater, futon bed, the basic sonic shower.

He waits for Bones to speak again, standing on the rush floor, finding his eyes darting towards the bed, over the dark coverlet, the pillows bunched together on one side how Bones left them in the morning. The trunk Jim borrowed clothing from is still open. He wonders if this is where they put his brother’s jacket, feeling a prickle of worry that he might not find it before he leaves; how, in his existential angst, he almost forgot about it. He clears his throat, feeling suddenly awkward, side-swiped again by family attachment.

“Nice place you got here,” he says recalling his time kept in the cage.

“Yep, seems like you made yourself right at home earlier.” Bones brushes past Jim, making an expansive gesture across his place. “I can almost forget I used to live in a plantation with servants, a wife, a ba… About to start my quiet country practice, keeping my fucking head down.” He looks sideways at Jim and their eyes connect for a moment until Bones breaks the look and turns towards a holo on a pile of PADDS by the bed. “I haven’t seen her for two years, not since my divorce.” He swallows. “You’re not the only one lost family.” His eyes brim with emotion, hurt.

“Who?”

“My daughter.” A whispered phrase that hits Jim like a mace to the chest. Bones has given him something here, an admission, a revelation that puts all the cards in Jim’s eager hands. But why? “You have a daughter? Where the fuck is she?”

He watches Bones, how his face twists, like he’s trying to stop all those enormous emotions of his bursting out, but his dam is busted by the looks of it. Family fucks you up, makes you weak.

“I don’t want to…I…”

“Jesus, Bones,” Jim hisses, stepping closer. “You want me to talk, like we need to figure things out, but you won’t be straight with me.” Jim notices how Bones’ hands are in tight fists by his hips. He’s swaying a little, literally fighting which way he’s going to go on this.

Jim lifts his fingers to his eye and rubs hard, then looks sideways at Bones. “Man,” he says with feeling, “I’ve gotten so used to not even thinking certain things, you know,” he nods in the general direction where, two days ago, they dragged him into the camp, “but here maybe it’s different.”

“Sometimes,” Bones agrees brow furrowing. He moves towards a bottle of bourbon by the bed and picking up a cup, he half fills it and hands it to Jim. “Go on.” 

Jim takes it, seeing it for a gesture of good faith. The spirit feels good sliding down his throat. He senses that if he wants Bones to talk he’s going to have to give something first. He hands the cup back and watches Bones pour himself a measure which he knocks back in one. 

“From your reaction out there, doesn’t take a genius to figure out you didn’t abandon your mother.”

“Technically I did, but it was as you would say - ‘for the greater good’.”

Bones snorts. “How so?”

“You know how it is, like all women, her fate’s wrapped up with the men in the family. With dad gone, survival for her was all about ensuring _my_ advancement, my _brother’s_.” Jim pauses, taking the bottle from Bones and knocking back another mouthful. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and sits on the edge of the bed, keeps talking like he’s on his own; it makes it easier that way if he doesn’t look directly at Bones who follows suit, shutting the trunk and sitting on the lid. “She was doing good making one allegiance after another with Alpha males, and she had her pick, dad’s influence still there even... after.... “

“And she’s beautiful, smart,” Bones interjects.

Jim looks up, their eyes catch and he wonders at himself, how he’s finding it so easy to let this out; he hasn’t confided in anyone since Sam. He nods and holds out his hand for the bottle again; the cup’s discarded now, their lips sharing the mouth of the bottle unselfconsciously. “And the trouble with Alpha males is—”

“—they inevitably get themselves killed.”

“Glory to the Empire,” Jim toasts flatly, knocking back another swig. He hands the bottle back. “And she was left high and dry time after time. And the thing is, Bones,” a tight edge creeps into his voice, “she might have chosen better if she hadn’t got us to worry about.” 

Satisfying images flash in Jim’s mind of that bastard Frank floating in the pool at the Kirk villa, and he can’t help grinning at the memory of his mother’s careful, emotionless face when she comm’d him, the fact that she sent him a photograph of ‘the accident’ evidence enough that she was behind getting rid of the abusive bastard. Only days later she’d moved on, accompanied to Jim’s graduation by one of Starfleet’s most decorated captains. There’s nothing in Bones’ expression that would reveal whether or not he knows who, though he must if he’s done his research: Christopher Pike, part of the backbone of the Empire. George would be spinning in his fucking grave if he had one, that his wife has betrayed everything he stood for and died for.

“It’s kind of ironic that the men paid for _my_ years at court not with their money but with my mother’s dowry, because the Empire says she can’t manage it for herself.” Bones responds with a look which has Jim holding up a hand to stay him. “Yeah, yeah, I know the fucking spiel: all that will change when we overthrow the Empire, equality blah, fucking blah...”

Bones presses his lips together tightly, then asks, “Okay, no lecture from me, but you still haven’t explained why you refuse contact with her.”

“To free her Bones, don’t you see? She’s got protection; I don’t need it anymore - I’m a big fucking boy now in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

“You cut off your nose to spite your face, Jim. You walked out the day of graduation.”

“I know what I fucking did.” Jim stands and moves towards the tent flap. “I’m done. So yeah, I don’t want ties, don’t need anyone: lone fucking wolf. I need to get off-planet, set up somewhere; there’s nothing for me here.” 

Bones stares at Jim, scowl on full, bottle poised for another drink. “That’s not it, is it?”

“It’s enough.” He’s not telling anyone about Sam, period; and his face burns a little with contained rage that anyone should question his loyalty to family. “How about you, Bones. Why the fuck are you hiding out here, and who’s paying the god-damned bills?” Jim looks around the large interior. “There are a lot of credits tied up in this little outfit and you aren’t funding it all through unsuccessful kidnapping, right? Not if snatching me is anything to go by.”

“That was an experiment, and it’s not for the ‘crat cause – needed the money for something else.”

“Something to do with your daughter?”

Bones flashes him a look. “You’re a nosy bastard, Kirk—“

“Where is she? Come on, man, I’ve given you something, now you can come clean with me.”

“We’ve tracked her down to an orphanage - when her mother died, her asshole husband sold the kid.”

There’s no need to ask how he let that happen, because Jim knows what it’s like to have no power, no influence. And given Bones’ involvement in the ‘crats, if he puts his head above the parapet, they’ll shoot him down.

“Well, let’s get her out – you know what they do to kids in those places.” It would have happened to Sam if Winona hadn’t come back from the Kelvin disaster, if she hadn’t hooked up the moment she got back to Earth; she told Jim she was setting that up even as she fed him while the shuttle sped away from the debris of the Kelvin.

“You’re crazy,” his tone, accusing and uncertain at the same time. Bones, stands steps towards him and Jim holds his ground so they’re eye to eye. Jim fancies he can see hope there, something soft Bones couldn’t hide if he tried. So this is what Bones wanted his help with – there’s opportunity for negotiation here and he won’t let it pass.

Jim puts his hands on his hips and grins. “Crazy, huh?”

“Damn right.”

No man has a fucking right to a voice like that. All at once, the tent seems small, airless; Bones is standing too fucking close, eyes locked like gunslingers, neither of them wanting to be the first to blink.

Jim runs his tongue along his teeth, feeling suddenly hyper aware of the details of that solemn face, individual dark lashes, the mole above the grouchy bastard’s left eye, the indents on his full, slightly chapped lower lip, the freckles disappearing under the stretched collar of his tatty t-shirt.

Fuck the Tantalus, fuck fists; Leonard McCoy could, Jim thinks, maybe fell him with one smoldering look.

So Jim reacts as he always does to threats, he goes in hard because running isn’t an option.

Jim lunges, fingers clamped to resistant shoulders and backs Bones towards the unmade bed even as Bones fights him, shakes Jim off and retaliates, barging Jim two handed on the chest. His eyes are dark, face flushed and he crosses the space between them, grabbing the hem of Jim’s t-shirt to pull him in for a kiss. It’s fervent, rough and fragrant; he’s searching sloppily for Jim’s tongue, wanting to draw it inside, suck the life out of him.

Jim hisses out a breath into that gorgeous mouth, marveling at Bones and his stubbornness and apparent inner conflict: the way he moans into the kiss, twists against the length of Jim’s body, pushing his groin against Jim’s erection. Bones cups and kneads Jim’s ass hard enough to bruise while letting out grumbles and curses whenever he’s forced to pull back momentarily to snatch a breath, like he’s being dragged under by an invisible current and he’s fighting for purchase, for air. Jim’s never been so turned on in his life.

Then Bones loses a foothold again and Jim upends him effortlessly onto the bed. Arms folded, he allows himself the luxury of savoring the sight before him. The glare is all heated derision as motionless, arms spread wide, Bones waits for Jim to make his next move. He watches Jim prowl up those long legs, settling astride Bones’ thighs. When he begins to unbuckle his belt, grabbing Bones’ hands and guiding them to his fly, the response is a growled, ‘fuck you’; and finally Bones bucks under him, getting Jim into an arm lock. Jim would laugh if he wasn’t so engrossed in struggling against muscular arms wrapping around his thighs and arm, and by Bones’ mouth biting into whichever parts he can reach. He can’t decide if the assault is attack or defence: he doesn’t care.

Jim’s response is to wriggle and slide away, though it’s half-hearted. Bones won’t know of course that in different circumstance he wouldn’t stand a fucking chance; that if you force Jim into a small space, he turns into a ruthless animal. But this, this is different; it’s not a fight, it’s a struggle for dominance, Jim thinks as he flattens Bones onto his back and watches him panting, pinning him as heated eyes stare defiantly at him. This is a sweat-soaked, grunt-filled to-and-fro, setting rules for what’s to come between them, establishing trust and boundaries.

The first revelation comes to Jim as he grasps Bones’ jaw in both hands, his elbow shifting to clamp his chest, till he stills, so Jim can bite and lick at his throat, his neck, his Adam’s apple, when he feels Bones press a knee under his perineum, the move gentle and threatening all at once. He understands then that that he’s never going to be truly on top. Bones will go down, but then he’ll get up and Jim is going to have to fell him over and over again.

In his own way, Bones will be the victor: how he keeps Jim in check, denying him total compliance. Making Jim _need_ that. It’s fucking intoxicating. No one has ever refused Jim Kirk anything in the bedroom, forever bowled over by his charisma. And Bones is the antithesis of Jim – he does nothing _but_ deny himself what he wants; look at him now, turning his head away as Jim tries to claim his lips, when a mere few minutes ago he was trying to swallow down Jim’s tongue like his life depended on it.

Somehow he’s managed to tear Bones’ t-shirt off him, well except for the scrap still hanging round his neck; it looks like a leash, and of course Jim can’t resist sharing this thought with Bones. Jim stifles the protests by angling his cock then thrusting it in between those plush lips. And yes, there he goes, sucking Jim down eagerly, moaning like this is all he wants, to be filled like this, when at the same time his hands are a stubborn force _against_ Jim’s hips, contradicting everything else, communicating he wants Jim to stop.

Aroused beyond belief, Jim realizes then that he will never mention this dichotomy to Bones, because he never wants to lose this.

“I’m going to fuck you, Bones,” he grinds out, rocking gently forwards, his skin burning, slick with sweat. He chuckles when Bones cracks open both eyes and somehow, even with his lips stretched wide, he manages a ‘that’s what you think’ look. He releases Jim with an obscene _plop_ and after a short struggle which Jim totally lets him win, _Jim’s_ the one tonguing Bones.

“Suits you, Jim, sucking my dick, you look good put in your place like that.”

Jim’s hand is cupping Leonard’s balls and he twists them gently, a reminder that actually no, he’s nowhere near been put in his place, that this is all a choice: he wants to be here, just as Bones does. He kneels up, transferring his fingers to Bones’ cock so he can climb back up his body and kiss him. Damn, that mouth, strong yet yielding, lips pillow soft, sharp bites and gentle licks confusing the hell out of him. He leans into Bones. “Stay fucking still, you’re so…what’s that word you southerners love…?”

“Asshole?” Bones offers bucking into Jim’s hand.

“ _Ornery_. Now turn round,” Jim orders, pulling away, wiping his brow. It’s close, the humidity making every movement hard work, even as it helps the slip and slide of their limbs, adding salt to their skin. “Turn around,” he says again, his voice taking on a darkness he’s missed.

Bones raises an eyebrow, considers, then turns onto his front, his hands gripping the pillows, adjusting them under his face. His long back muscled and tan, tense. Jim adjusts his position so he’s braced over warm skin and positions himself between the Bones’ ass cheeks, rutting along the cleft. It feels good, but he needs to unravel Bones a little more before he can get what he wants, what they both want.

While nipping gently across a freckled shoulder, Jim’s hand slides under that taut stomach and he finds Bones hard, leaking, brimstone hot, crushed between his hand and Bones’ body. “Stay like that,” he growls into Bones’ ear, planting a kiss on his temple, and when Bones turns searching awkwardly for a kiss, Jim pulls away sadistically and moves down, down until his head is level with that muscular ass.

He moistens the tip of his thumb and parts Bones’ cheeks, pressing experimentally against his hole. Fuck, the way he pulls away, flattening against the bed then pressing back against Jim’s touch. Jim gives his own dick a reassuring tug. He elbows Bones’ thighs apart, settling his hands on his buttocks and teases, nipping and licking just above the cleft, the fine muscles above the swell. Bones groans raggedly at the touch, the promise. When Jim’s chin rakes across soft skin, he hears a grumbled, “ _Fuck_...”

Jim responds by kneading the flesh, dragging his tongue slowly downwards, repositioning himself so he can hump the mattress, get a little friction going in case he gets stuck in this rut of selflessness and becomes a total pussy.

“What the fuck are you grinning about?”

Jim pulls back for a second, blowing across moist skin, and looks up at Bones who’s craning to watch. “If you can still form sentences, I must be doing something wrong.”

He dives back in, his senses flooded by musk, the sound of his own heartbeat, Bones becoming slowly more incoherent, soft skin warm and pliant. Jim never keeps his tongue in place too long, doesn’t want Bones to settle, to lose himself quite yet, though he stores this away for another time, suspecting he’ll be able to make Bones come just like this. He stabs, licks and laps, can feel Bones getting close and finally replaces his tongue with his finger, tentatively, not wanting to give Bones a reason to grumble again.

“Where’s the lube, Bones?”

“Medkit,” he manages to reply, his voice rough and low, hands twisting in the sheets.

Jim slicks up fingers and cock and sits back, taking a moment to admire the rangy expanse of edible Bones.

“If you think I’m going to let that mouth anywhere near me, you’ve…mnff…” Jim grabs his head, kissing him thoroughly, tongue searching and sucking, licking at his teeth, the roof of his mouth till they’re both breathless, thrilled that the fight in Bones has resurfaced again. Finally Bones disengages their mouths, dragging the back of his hand across swollen lips, “Unsanitary,” he grumbles, eyes flashing, though Jim can tell by the quirk of spit-slick lips that he’s trying not to smile.

Jim allows Bones to take control so he’s the one astride Jim’s thighs. He lies back, puts his hands behind his head and watches in delight as Bones takes his time finding the right angle to guide Jim in. 

But he can’t not-touch for long, skimming his fingers across strong, lightly haired thighs, slightly in awe at the beauty of this belligerent creature, the crazy plume of hair, crow dark now it’s sweat soaked and sticking to his forehead and temples, those wide eyes, a kaleidoscope of hazel and green flecks almost banished by blown pupils.

“What you fuckin’ looking at?” comes the surly demand even as Bones pushes down, his face contorting in reaction to the breach, eyebrows drawing together. He bites his lips, scrunches his eyes shut and breathes till the first wave of pain subsides.

“Been a while?” Jim chokes out the words, the sensation of Bones opening up around him so perfect, tight and clasping; he’s going to come in two seconds flat if he doesn’t distract himself.

“You’re not…the only one has… sex, kid.” The words stutter out, punctuated by uneven grunts and moans.

Kid? Jim guesses Bones owes him a nickname so he lets it go, putting his fight into nudging to meet Bones’ downward slide, to soothing him with soft strokes across his stomach, circling then pinching at the moment he bottoms out.

“Fuck you,” Bones hisses, holding in position, rooted and full. Jim gasps, lets go and waits for Bones’ expression to soften then begins to fuck up into him, taking his time, willing himself to last.

Bones meets each thrust, holds onto Jim’s knees temporarily guiding the pace. Jim sometimes complies, enjoying the ebb and flow of who’s piloting, sensing instinctively that this is how it’ll roll with the two of them.

And he times it perfectly; a hand on each hip. Jim flips Bones onto his back, ignoring the squawk of temper, the scowl and glare, until he manages to find the right angle. All protest swept aside, Bones gives a startled moan, a cue for Jim to pick up the pace.

It’s a whitewash when Jim comes, with Bones almost doubled over under him, their mouths bound with teeth and tongues, and Jim roaring on a tide of blood that leaves him faint-headed, slumped across Bones’ broad chest, relieved to slide in come because in the throes, he’d kind of forgotten to think about getting Bones off. Once was okay but twice would have got him stabbed in his sleep, Jim’s sure of it.

“God damn, we smell like two cats a’fightin, as my Gram used to say.”

“No fight in me now,” Jim whispers, hoping the feeling will return to his legs at some point soon.

Bones lifts his hand and it flops onto Jim’s shoulder, like he’s about to say something, but he doesn’t appear to have the strength.

+++

Jim chuckles in a way that makes Leonard mad, makes him want to punch some sense into the kid, if he didn’t feel like every bone in his body had turned to jelly. If he wasn’t a man against violence. Mostly. “What’s so god-damned funny?”

“Man, I’ve let myself down avoiding doctors – with that bedside manner no wonder you’ve got folk hiking through the wilds so they can find you.”

“I’m not a doctor!”

Jim sits up. “What, wadda ya mean? ‘Course you are, I’ve seen you with the…” Jim’s hand lifts limply from where it’s rested on Leonard’s chest. “Sawbones, hands on, with the equipment and stuff.”

“Well, there’s that, sure. Never got my licence, never qualified.” Still hurts, still makes his voice crack a little if he speaks of it, which is never. 

Jim moves beside him and for a moment, all Leonard can hear is the sound of the forest outside, then, “Who was it? Who wouldn’t you kill?”

How does he know? How does Jim get that he just…a flash behind his eyelids of the scene, of gray eyes looking up at him from the stretcher till Pike lost consciousness. _Make it look like his heart just gave out,_ they said. Who’d know?

And he hesitated, the only medic on duty, young, scared. Because he was afraid they’d kill _him_ if he didn’t? Or afraid of what he was capable of? Preserve life, alleviate suffering and pain – it’s what his mother taught him when he was a kid, couched it in stories she made up, which she whispered while he played with action figures in the bath, tales set in a parallel, mythical world, of a magician who battled dark forces, who had potions which saved people. Stories he’d begun to tell his daughter before he lost her.

“Who was it?” Jim insists. 

Leonard swallows, waiting for Jim to disengage and give him some room to breathe. Here goes nothing...

“Jim, I’ve got some good news and some bad news...”

+++

**TBC final part, part 6 coming soon!**


End file.
